


Move Like Grey Skies (Move Like a Bird of Paradise)

by casson



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: Ballet dancer Christen, F/F, soccer player tobin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:55:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 45,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26136109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casson/pseuds/casson
Summary: Chicago Red Stars forward Tobin Heath, just trying to hard chill her way through life one day at a time, meets Christen Press, the uptight principal ballerina of the Chicago Ballet Company.Hatred ensues immediately, of course.
Relationships: Tobin Heath/Christen Press
Comments: 604
Kudos: 1167





	1. Chapter 1

When Tobin’s alarm goes off right by her ear, her first thought is, _it’s way too early._

Her bedroom is glowing silver-white through the turned-down blinds, so it must be just mid-morning. _Didn’t I turn my alarm off last night? I could’ve sworn…_

With a loud groan, Tobin kicks her tangled sheets off her legs and scrabbles her fingers on the bedside table for her phone. She doesn’t register, until she squints at the glaringly bright screen, that the sound she’s hearing is not her alarm. It’s her ringtone. It’s Morgan. It’s Morgan calling _before nine in the morning_. On a Saturday.

With another groan, Tobin puts the call on speaker and tosses the phone onto the other side of the empty bed. “Morgan Brian,” she mutters, burrowing herself back down into fetal position under the sheets. “What. The fuck. Is this.”

“Oh, sorry, didn’t wake you, did I?” Morgan answers cheerfully.

“Mmmfph.” Tobin responds. Head half-under her pillow, she’s almost asleep again.

“ _Tobin!_ ”

 _Oww, so loud_.

“Moe.” Tobin rolls over onto her back, eyes still shut. Her throat aches. Her head is pounding. It’s like she can literally feel the blood pulsing through her temples. “What do you need. What is wrong with you.”

“What’s wrong with _me_?” It’s too early, Tobin thinks, for the level of exasperation in Morgan’s voice. “What’s wrong with you!? Wait, are you actually still in bed?”

The gears in Tobin’s head are very, very slowly starting to turn. There’s a gnawing sense of dread. _Why wouldn’t I still be in bed?_

Morgan continues, “Well, you’ve got fifteen minutes to get here, so, you better skedaddle. Don’t worry about groveling on the phone, you can kiss my feet when you get here. Bye!”

_“Here”?_

_Wait…shit._

“SHIT!” Tobin shouts into the phone, but the line’s already dead.

Tobin’s definitely awake now. She flings herself out of bed, stumbles the few steps to her closet in nothing but her boxer shorts. She grabs the first shirt she sees, a black Nike t-shirt, and pulls it on while jamming her feet into a pair of slides. The clock on the dresser says it’s 8:45 AM. _Shit, shit, shit_.

Dropping to her knees, Tobin rummages in the red and blue duffle bag she’d dropped by the bedroom door yesterday afternoon. Stuffed in a side pocket, she finds it: a Nike logo-emblazoned folder that’s now bent in half and streaked with dried mud from a dirty shin guard. _Oops_. Inside the folder are several brochures and talking points, announcing Nike’s new collaboration with the city of Chicago: creating a fund for low-income Chicago students to attend sports camps and be mentored by Nike-sponsored athletes. The Chicago Red Stars had volunteered a few of their superstars to participate, and this morning, Tobin, Moe, and Alyssa are supposed to be at the kick-off event.

At the kick-off event that is starting in fifteen…Tobin glances up at the clock again. _Shit, fourteen minutes!_

Tobin flips frantically through the stack, scattering papers onto the piles of clothes and crap on the floor all around her, until she finds the address. She plugs it into Uber with one hand as she pulls on a pair of gray sweatpants with another. _Am I forgetting anything? Got my keys…no time to brush my teeth…shit, I need to put on a bra. Where is my bra? It’s probably out in the…_

Tobin flings the door open and walks smack-dab into a soft, warm body.

“Hey, Tobin.” The girl giggles. Her face looks only vaguely familiar to Tobin from last night. (In Tobin’s defense, it was dark in the club. And in the car home, and then in the apartment.) She’s short and curvy, and she’s got curly blonde hair and…no clothes on. “Sorry, I just went out to use the bathroom. Did I wake you?”

“Oh, uh…” Tobin scrambles for her name. _Oh, forget it. No time for this_. “No, my friend called. Had a great time last night, but sorry, I gotta go.”

The girl’s face wilts a little, but she maintains her little smirk. “Are you sure? So soon? I was really hoping for a repeat of…”

She’s talking at Tobin’s back already. Tobin’s racing down the hall towards the living room. _Aha, bra_. She picks up the gray cotton bra from the floor near the couch, where it’s lying near some other conspicuously scattered articles of clothing. She takes a glance around the living room— _wow, what a mess. It looks way worse in daylight. Can’t believe I brought a girl home to this last night_. “Nice meeting you!” She hollers over her shoulder as she maneuvers the bra on under her shirt. “Can you just lock the door behind you when you leave?”

There’s some disgruntled whining going on from the girl, but Tobin can’t quite make out the words as she rushes on. Whatever. The front door’s slamming behind her already.

* * *

Tobin’s late.

But just by an itty, bitty bit, she tells herself as she shouts a thank-you to her Uber driver and books it into Lincoln Park, looking for the event set-up.

As she jogs half-heartedly down the sidewalk, under a gloomy, overcast October sky, she curses herself for dropping the ball yet again. She wants to be annoyed at Morgan’s nagging, but honestly, Morgan has the right to be worried. Recently, Tobin’s been late for everything. She’s late for trainings, she’s late for press conferences, and last month, she fell asleep in her car after arriving at the stadium early and was almost late for a game. Rory very nearly murdered her.

She promised herself she wouldn’t be late for this event. Yet here she is, late.

She spies the balloons first, hundreds of colorful orbs tied to trees by the waterside. Then she sees an enormous cloth banner draped over the side of a building, featuring a 15-foot-wide Nike swoop. There’s a gathering crowd, with cameramen and curious onlookers. And finally, she sees Morgan and Alyssa, standing on the edge of where the event’s being held. “I’m here!” she yells at them from fifty feet away, drawing curious glances from passers-by.

“I’m here,” she repeats, barreling up to join them, out of breath. “Only ten minutes late, see? Not too bad. Besides, it looks like nothing’s started yet.”

She expects them to look proud of her, or at least resigned, but instead, they both pull back from her in horror.

“What?!”

“Tobin.” Alyssa is already fumbling in her pockets for something. She pulls out a pack of gum and hisses under her breath, “This is an event for children. _With_ children. You smell like booze from ten feet away.”

“And what is THIS?” Moe is staring a little frantically at Tobin’s neck. She reaches her finger out, and then cringes back. “Oh, my god, I’m not even going to touch it.”

“What?” Tobin protests groggily, swiping at her neck. Her palm comes back red with lipstick. _Whoa_. “Oh, uh, that’s…uh…”

“Stop, I don’t even want to hear.” Morgan’s already got a hand on Tobin’s back, shoving her towards the front door of the nearby building. Moe and Alyssa basically drag Tobin into the women’s restroom.

For the first time that day, as Tobin chomps on a piece of spearmint gum from Alyssa and wets a paper towel in the sink, she gets a look at herself in the mirror. There’s no getting around it: she looks like shit. It’s not just her clothes—Morgan and Alyssa are dressed in jeans and nice shirts, compared to Tobin’s wrinkled sweats—it’s that her hair is a bird’s nest and her eyes are bloodshot and she’s suddenly aware of the whiskey on her breath and her neck—

Well, it’s covered with glaring, unmistakable lipstick smears. 

Suddenly loathing herself, filled with red-hot shame, Tobin takes the paper towel and scrubs at her neck, _hard_ , feeling the excess water drip down her clavicle and into the front of her shirt as she goes. Morgan takes another damp paper towel and starts wiping Tobin’s baby hairs down, as if that could get the stink of stale alcohol out. Tobin goes at it with all her might until Alyssa mildly puts a hand over hers, draws it away from her neck. “No need to take your skin off too,” she says gently, but without making eye contact.

There’s a look in both their eyes that Tobin knows all too well. That she’s seen all too many times this year.

“I’m fine,” Tobin says, a little too loud, a little too harsh, even to her own ears. She just wants to say something, anything, to fill the silence. To get rid of that pitying, worried expression in her friends’ eyes. “I know, I said I wasn’t going to be late. I was just out a little too late last night and slept through my alarm.” (A lie: she had totally forgotten about the event. If Morgan hadn’t called, she’d probably still be in bed with the blonde girl.) “You guys know I’m fine, right? It won’t happen again.”

“We believe you!” Morgan chirps, just a little too chipper to be real.

Alyssa just leans back against the wall and shrugs, stone-faced.

Tobin isn’t sure which reaction is worse.

But she sucks in a deep breath and wipes her face down with one last paper towel. Her neck is now a little red from the scrubbing, but anything is better than that lipstick. (She wants to die a little, internally, imagining what the Uber driver must’ve thought of her. Or anyone she passed in the park on her way here.) She pulls her damp hair up into a messy bun. She surveys herself in the mirror. _There we go. Passable, if still a little grungy._

Still in a bit of a hungover daze, she follows Morgan and Alyssa back out of the bathroom and then the building. While they were inside, the crowd had swelled. “So I think there are going to be some speeches first,” Morgan’s explaining to nobody in particular, “and then we’re playing some field day games with local kids? And then some interviews, I think?”

“Interviews?” Tobin gets a little panicky, her hand flying up to her still-red neck. “Interviews are the fucking worst. Do we really need to do them?”

“Relax, they came around earlier to ask who wanted to be interviewed, and we told them that we would do it, so you don’t have to,” Morgan reassures Tobin, slinging a comfortable arm around her neck as they survey the packed park. Tobin relaxes into Morgan’s touch, leaning her cheek on the other girl’s shoulder. Physical touch is definitely Tobin’s love language, and Morgan’s little gesture seems like a bit of forgiveness. A little leniency, a little sign that the day is getting back to normal.

“Excuse me, are you all here with the Chicago Red Stars?” An official-looking woman with a clipboard, her mouth set in a stern, straight line, stops in front of them. She gives Tobin and her rumpled clothes a disapproving once-over.

“Uh…” Tobin can feel herself turning a little red, as Morgan and Alyssa cluster protectively even closer to her. “Yeah, we are.”

“We need you to come register,” the woman says. “If you could step this way with me?”

Before the sentence is even out of her mouth, the lady is already steering Tobin by the shoulder. Clearly, there was only one right answer to her question. Tobin listlessly allows herself to be dragged, and exchanging raised eyebrows, Morgan and Alyssa hurry after her.

They bustle through the set-up of tables and lawn chairs and speaker wires to a folding table, set up under a large tree, with Nike staff sitting behind it. “Last name Heath, Chicago Red Stars.” Tobin tells the woman behind the table. As the woman rummages for Tobin’s nametag and a bag of Nike giveaways, Tobin takes the chance to glance around the crowded park. There are tons of little kids there already, and she spies some familiar Chicago athletes milling around as well. The sun is just starting to peek out from behind the heavy cloud cover. _Shake it off_ , she tells herself. _It might not be a bad day after all_.

“Morgan Brian, also Red Stars.” Morgan pipes up after Tobin gets her stuff.

The woman starts bustling around looking for Morgan’s nametag. “You need to put that on,” she snaps brusquely, gesturing at the nametag dangling limply from Tobin’s fingers. Tobin grimaces. She hates nametags. But reluctantly, under the woman’s death glare, she peels off the nametag’s backing and slaps it onto her t-shirt.

“This is actually pretty neat, that the kids will get their training paid for and get to interact with players from all these teams,” Morgan says. As Alyssa gives the woman her name and waits to collect her gear, Morgan rifles through some of the promotional material and cards emblazoned with team names that are sitting on the table. “The Cubs, the Bulls, the White Sox…here’s the Red Stars! Cool, the Sky; I thought I saw some of the girls walking around earlier…”

“What’s this?” Tobin pulls a lone straggler of a card out from under a Nike water bottle. “Wait—no fucking way.” She bursts out laughing, and Alyssa and Morgan crowd in around her.

“The Chicago Ballet Company?” Morgan exclaims, snatching the card away to peer at it. “Get out. No way that’s real.”

“I didn’t realize Nike endorsed ballerinas.” Alyssa wonders, sounding almost impressed. 

“Yeah, that’s because you’d assume they only endorse _athletes_.” Tobin retorts. Morgan cackles, and even Alyssa snickers a little. Tobin does feel a tiny bit bad, especially when she notices the woman working behind the table fix them with a disapproving stare, but when Morgan stops laughing long enough to say, “Give us a twirl, Tobs!”, she can’t help the chance to make them laugh more. _Better to keep them laughing at me._ _As long as they’re laughing at me, they’re not worrying about me_ , _right?_ Raising her arms in a sloppy circle over her head, she adopts a hoity-toity expression and spins out crazily, away from the table, and—

 _Oof_.

She slams shoulder-first into a girl standing in line behind them.

“Shit!” She exclaims, stumbling backwards, a little dizzy. She feels Morgan’s hand on her back, supporting her, and hears Alyssa’s voice chiming in with apologies. “Whoa, my bad,” Tobin says. She looks up at the poor victim of her awful dancing—

and immediately loses her ability to speak.

It isn’t just that the girl is beautiful, and _oh boy, is she beautiful_. She has dark skin, black hair arranged in perfect, gleaming waves over her shoulder, and the greenest eyes Tobin has ever seen. It isn’t just that she’s poised and polished, standing straight and calm even after the collision that had sent Tobin reeling back.

No, it’s the expression on her face that catches Tobin off guard. She doesn’t just look pained or surprised—she looks furious.

Immediately, guilt washes over Tobin. She hates when people are upset with her. “I really…I really didn’t mean—I mean, I didn’t see you there, I’m sorry for hitting you,” she scrambles, cursing herself for being so bad with words, such a bad talker, such a bad apologizer. “Are you hurt?”

Without a word, the girl lifts her chin, side-steps Tobin, and waves Morgan out of her way with a dismissive flick of her wrist. Behind her back, Alyssa raises her eyebrows, and Morgan gives Tobin a sympathetic, worried shrug. “Rude,” Tobin mouths silently to her friends. _I said I was sorry!_

“Name and organization?” The woman manning the table asks.

“Christen Press,” the girl says. She doesn’t turn back to look at the soccer players, but her spine straightens higher, if that’s even possible. “I’m with the Chicago Ballet Company.”

* * *

“She looks sort of familiar,” Tobin whispers, “doesn’t she?”

After this total disaster of a morning, Tobin isn’t entirely sure how she’s still standing. After the incident by the sign-in table, where Tobin had fervently wished for the ground to just open up and swallow her whole, Alyssa and Morgan somehow steered Tobin away into a far corner of the crowd, where they are now. The speeches by Chicago politicians and Nike executives have been going for a while, but Tobin hasn’t been paying any attention. Instead, she’s been staring at the at the beautiful, mean ballet girl.

Standing about forty feet away from the Red Stars players, the girl looks exactly like how Tobin would picture a ballerina in her mind: gorgeous, girly, skinny, fashionable. She’s wearing a floaty black floral dress and wedge heels, a stark contrast to the crowds around her in jeans and sneakers. And she’s standing ramrod-straight, nodding and smiling primly along to the speeches.

“Doesn’t she look familiar?” Tobin repeats in a whisper, looking at Alyssa and Morgan for confirmation. “What did she say her name was? Christen?”

“Just because a girl is hot doesn’t mean she looks familiar,” Morgan teases, already dancing out of the way in case Tobin tries to punch her in the arm.

“No, I think she does too,” Alyssa says, “and I think I know from where. Her face was all over the subway this summer when the city was promoting the Chicago Ballet Company. I forget which show it was. Anyway, I’m pretty sure everyone in the city knows her face.”

“Oh yeah, wasn’t it Sleeping Beauty or something?” Morgan laughs. Tobin remembers now, too: those enormous, elaborate ads with that girl on them, wearing a white dress and crown of wildflowers and smiling insipidly.

“Yeah, Chicago must’ve spent a fortune on that ad campaign,” Alyssa continues, shaking her head. “I remember seeing the city logo in the corner. Can you imagine if they put half that funding into trying to get more publicity for our NWSL season?”

“We’ll get to the championship this year without their help,” Tobin mutters. And it’s probably true – with the playoffs approaching, the Red Stars are sitting near the top of the rankings. But still, like Morgan, she chafes against the idea that the city was choosing to invest their funding in publicity for the fucking _ballet_ instead of soccer. “Seriously, do little girls really need more of that idea in their heads? That they have to be perfect and skinny and wear dresses and literal fucking flower crowns all the time?”

In front of them, an older couple turns and frowns at Tobin.

“Sorry!” Tobin mutters, dropping her voice low again. The three girls back up even further from the nearest bystanders. “Okay, but seriously, come on. If Chicago really wanted to invest in culture they should invest in the NWSL and WNBA.”

“Hear, hear,” Alyssa mutters. “Okay, but on a different topic, we should probably apologize to her.”

“Apologize?!”

“Well, she did literally catch us in the act of mocking her,” Morgan agrees, a little shamefaced.

“Okay, first, I wasn’t mocking her, I was mocking her _activity_.” Tobin makes a point of not calling it a sport. “And let’s be real. Prancing around in a tutu on a stage does not make someone an athlete. I still don’t get why she’s even here. And plus, earlier, when I bumped into her, I said I was sorry.”

The stern look on Alyssa’s face tells her she’s not getting out of this one.

“Okay, fine, I’ll apologize again,” Tobin mutters.

And she does try. Well, sort of.

After the speeches, Tobin halfheartedly edges through the crowd to stand near Christen Press. She’s still self-conscious about whether she smells like whiskey, but at least nobody’s turning around to stare at her in disgust, so she takes that as a win. _When she turns and makes eye contact with me_ , Tobin tells herself, _I’ll say sorry_.

But Christen is swarmed by adoring fans, and though she passes within a couple feet of Tobin several times, she never once turns her head to look Tobin in the eye. It throws Tobin off, a bit. _Why isn’t she looking at me?_

Tobin slumps back to Alyssa and Morgan. “I tried!”

“You did not try,” Morgan snickers. “Standing within five feet of her, staring off into the distance, does not count as trying. You have to _say_ something.”

Take two. After the games with the kids start, Tobin finds herself near Christen again. After the three-legged race, but before the hula-hooping, the ballet dancer is standing near a couple pre-teen girls, laughing at something they’re saying. Tobin reluctantly approaches her. “Hi,” she says.

Christen turns to face Tobin, seemingly surprised. The laugh dies from her face, and is replaced with a cool politeness.

“Hi,” she replies.

Christen’s bright green eyes catch Tobin off guard again, and she falters, unsure of her next move. But she waits a beat too long. One of the little girls says something, and Christen walks away to answer her, and just like that, Tobin finds herself standing alone again.

_What the fuck is happening?_

She stalks back towards her friends again, a little angrier this time. “Okay, I actually tried this time,” she whines. “I tried to start a conversation and she just walked off.”

“Tobin, you’re hopeless.” Alyssa rolls her eyes, and forges into the crowd herself. Defeated, Tobin watches as Alyssa authoritatively approaches Christen. It’s too far for her to hear what they’re saying, but they talk for a while. Even from a distance, Tobin can tell that Christen’s being all sweet and friendly, and even Alyssa’s smiling a bit.

 _So it’s just me_ , Tobin grouses internally. _She just hates me, she’s nice to everyone else_.

“I really tried,” Tobin sighs plaintively, resting her head against Morgan’s shoulder again. Being around her friends always made her want to act like a little kid. “I wanted to say something, but I got all tongue-tied because she looked so mean, and then she left.”

Morgan pats Tobin comfortingly on the top of her head. “It’s okay, Tobin. I know you tried. You can’t make someone like you if they’ve decided they’re not going to.”

 _Ain’t that the truth_.

Alyssa returns to them, with the comforting affirmation that Christen was not mad at all about the encounter at the sign-in table. Tobin squirms, not quite believing that Christen wasn’t just a tad bit mad at her—but she lets it slide. She’s never going to see the ballet dancer again. And anyway, this day is about the kids, after all. They spend the rest of the morning playing some beach volleyball with some of the Chicago Sky players and a group of elementary school kids, as Nike videographers and photographers capture the event. Tobin loves kids, and she has them laughing and shouting the whole time. Even the judgmental sign-up lady from earlier seems pleased when she comes by to scope out the scene.

Towards the tail end, as people are already starting to trickle out, Alyssa and Morgan finally get the heads-up that the crew is ready for their interviews. Tobin slouches along behind her friends as they head over to the building, where the interviewers are using the fancy stone siding as a backdrop. A bunch of athletes are lined up, answering a few questions on camera.

And there— _just my luck_ , Tobin whines internally—is Christen Press, getting interviewed. As the girls approach, she smiles a little and waves at Alyssa.

She does not make eye contact with Tobin.

 _It’s fine_ , Tobin tells herself, though in actuality it’s really starting to grate on her. _Why is she being so rude?_ _I really did try to apologize. At least I said hi._

Alyssa and Morgan go off for their interviews, just a few paces away. Tobin drops down onto a nearby bench and tunes out a little, wishing she had a soccer ball to juggle right now. But then she starts to notice: Christen’s interview has been going on way longer than the others. Whereas the other celebrity athletes are coming and going pretty rapidly, it seems like Christen’s dozens of questions deep, and the guy moderating her interview is standing super close to her, adoringly. More often than not, when he says something, Christen giggles, and Tobin barely manages to not roll her eyes. Considering how unfriendly the girl was earlier, the giggle is probably fake. Also, the moderator’s eyes seem to constantly drift suspiciously low – definitely not on Christen’s face. For some reason, this irritates Tobin to no end, especially when Tobin thinks about what Morgan had mentioned about the city’s funding disparities that morning. _Seriously, she’s getting more speaking time to represent her organization because the moderator thinks she’s hot, and she’s flirting with him?_

“Okay, last question here before I let you go, Christen,” the dude says, sounding breathless. “Can you talk to us a little bit about the beauty of sport?”

_Jesus, keep it in your pants, dude._

“Yes, of course,” Christen responds sweetly, pivoting expertly from the guy to face the camera. “That’s one of the things I love most about dancing. I get to be not just an _athlete_ —” Tobin swears she isn’t imaging that Christen pauses and glances slightly in Tobin’s direction “—but also, an artist. It’s been shown time and again that the discipline and creativity of dance has really positive benefits for young children. And so one of the things I’m most excited about, with the Chicago Ballet Company’s participation in Nike and the city’s efforts, is to introduce some of that beauty and creativity into a program where it otherwise might not be present.”

At this, Tobin raises her head, indignant. Alyssa and Morgan glance over from their interviews just in time to realize that something’s about to go down.

But it’s too late.

“Where it might not otherwise be present?!” Tobin exclaims loudly. Heads turn. “What, like, basketball and soccer don’t have any beauty? Or _creativity_? Seriously?”

_The nerve of this girl. Saying she’s the only one bringing “beauty” into the program? As if there’s no beauty in other sports? How dare she._

Christen has the decency to at least look a little flustered. Her perfect, smooth skin creases a little between the eyebrows. But her interviewer is already defensively rolling his eyes at Tobin. “Excuse me, ma’am, we’re trying to film here,” he snaps. “Christen—sorry about the interruption!”

“Oh, don’t worry about it at all! Thanks for having me!” Christen chirps, with a sweet smile.

As soon as the guy gathers his stuff and turns away (looking a little disappointed to be parting from Christen), the cute expression drops off of Christen’s face. Without the sweet mask, Tobin doesn’t think she’s ever seen someone look so haughty and frigid. With her nose in the air, Christen’s about to sweep off down the path when Tobin jumps to her feet.

She hadn’t been planning on saying anything. She was going to let this all go. But maybe it’s the indignance Tobin still feels from Christen’s dumb “beauty of sport” comment. Maybe it’s the last remnants of her splitting hangover headache, or annoyance at the panicky babysitter stares Alyssa and Morgan are shooting her way. But as Christen starts to head by her, she snaps, “You know, I said I was sorry, so what’s your problem?”

Christen turns on her heel to face her. “Excuse me? Come again?”

Just like it did earlier, Christen’s poise and dignity and sheer condescension are starting to get Tobin a little rattled. But she pushes on.

“I already said I was sorry, for earlier. Just feels like you’re still holding it against me, that’s all.”

Christen raises her eyebrows. “Let’s see. Earlier, you said, and I quote, ‘I’m sorry for hitting you.’ You and I both know that’s not the apology I’m looking for. And then you sent your friend over to apologize for you. Smooth.”

Tobin can’t think of a good response, so she plows on with her original point. “You’re being rude.”

“I’m not being rude at all,” Christen says defensively, though her frosty demeanor is betraying her very words. “Every time you’ve greeted me, I’ve greeted you back. I haven’t said anything insulting or impolite. Where have I been rude? Or is it…” a smirk is growing on Christen’s face. “Is it that I’m not falling all over myself trying to impress you?”

“What?” Tobin is flushed. She can feel her heartbeat pounding, indignant and frenzied, below the surface of her skin. She was not expecting the conversation to turn in this direction. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do know what I’m talking about,” Christen says, in a silky-smooth way that indicates that she _knows_ she has the upper hand here. “I know your type. You literally can’t handle one person—one single person—not drooling all over you, trying to get in your pants. That’s why you’re interpreting my basic manners as rudeness. You don’t want people to be polite to you. You want people to _worship_ you. Which I am not doing.”

“That is…so…fucking inaccurate.” Tobin is mad now. She may have flaws. She may have a lot of flaws. But she knows her flaws, and arrogance is not one of them.

She hates this girl. She hates the snooty tip of her chin, and her girly designer clothing, and the way she’s clever enough to run conversational circles around Tobin, making Tobin feel so fumbling and stupid.

Most of all, she hates the smirk that’s currently resting on Christen’s face. Christen knows she’s won. “Well, goodbye,” she says, light and breezy, her gaze already lifted over Tobin’s shoulder towards the road. “I wish I could say it was nice meeting you, Tobin Heath.”

Still desperate to end on a high note, Tobin leans back on her heels with a smirk to rival Christen’s own. “So, you say you don’t worship me, but somehow you knew my name?”

Christen’s smile is condescending and slick. “No, honey.” She reaches out, taps Tobin’s shoulder twice with a perfectly manicured finger. “It’s on your name tag.”

Before Tobin’s utter mortification can fully set in, Christen is already sauntering off down the sidewalk. Tobin can do nothing but stare, jaw hanging slightly open, at Christen’s retreating figure, her gauzy black dress blowing in the wind like she’s in a perfume ad.

“Wow, Tobes, that was…really something.” Morgan pops up at Tobin’s shoulder. Alyssa’s only a couple steps behind. 

Tobin groans out loud. “Please tell me you guys didn’t just see that whole thing.”

Morgan only grimaces, but puts her arms around Tobin’s shoulders comfortingly. “Tobito, you know we love you, but…I can’t say you didn’t have that coming.”

“Tobin Heath 0, Christen Press 1,” Alyssa mutters under her breath. And the three girls stand together and watch as Christen gracefully tucks herself into a gleaming chauffeured car, which slides silently away from the curb and out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told myself I wasn't going to start a new fic while I still had one in progress, but this idea would not leave my head, and I really needed to take a break from writing angst in these angsty times, so...here I am.
> 
> (It's very weird to think of Tobin as a Red Star, right? But Chicago is the only NWSL city that I thought could plausibly have a major American ballet theater so...here we are.)
> 
> Hope everyone is holding up okay out there. #BLM always. Love you all.


	2. Chapter 2

Tobin loves her morning runs along the lakefront – in fact, it was one of the reasons that she had paid such a premium to live closer to the lake. This October morning is balmier than Tobin had expected it to be, and fifteen minutes into the run, she’s already sweating through her lightweight Nike jacket.

She had tried to convince Moe to come with her this morning, but Moe had begged out, noting that Fabrice would be over early to make brunch for her before practice. Tobin tries not to think too hard about the sensation of wanting someone running in companionable silence next to her. _I don’t get lonely_ , Tobin reminds herself, picking up her pace a little as she follows the curve of the wide lakeside sidewalk. _I love my alone time. The independence, the flexibility_. _I don’t need someone to run next to me. Or to come over in the morning and make brunch for me._

Half an hour later, the sidewalk is finally starting to fill with other runners and bikers and dog-walkers, and Tobin has to turn her music down and start paying attention to her surroundings. A couple on a tandem bike whizzes by to her left, followed by an older man chugging slowly along, and to her right, a girl with a small brown dog on a leash overtakes her and leaves her in the dust. Tobin chuckles to herself at the dog’s enthusiasm, at the way its ears and tongue flop in sync as it keeps up with its owner.

 _Maybe that’s what I need_ , she thinks, _a dog to keep me company. Definitely not a human_. ~~~~

Ahead, the running trail takes a sharp ninety-degree turn around the water. Tobin’s still squinting at the cute dog when the dog and its owner take the turn and Tobin gets a good look at the owner’s face.

It’s Christen Press.

Tobin almost stumbles on the sidewalk, but manages to catch herself just in time. (Although she does earn herself a disgruntled, passive-aggressive sigh from the guy running behind her, who pulls up short and swerves around her just in time to avoid a collision.) Tobin waves a distracted apology at him, staring at Christen as the other girl flies down the sidewalk in matching forest green leggings and a sports bra, sleek black ponytail waving jauntily in the wind, with her dog by her side.

 _Of course she’s here_ , Tobin thinks grumpily as she gets back in her running rhythm. She hasn’t seen the other girl since the Nike kick-off event, which had been two weeks ago. She knew that there’d be follow-up events, that she’d probably have to see her around here and there, but on her normal running route, too? Insufferable. _I’m running through Gold Coast right now; I bet she lives in one of these super bougie apartments. Of course she’s one of those girls who works out in perfect, pretty, matching exercise clothes. And now I’ll have to run behind her for the rest of this stretch._ Tobin stares sullenly at Christen’s running figure. _Although I gotta say, she looks great in those leggings—I mean, WHAT?_

“Stop it!” Tobin accidentally snaps out loud to herself, clearly startling a nearby woman on a bike. She tries to look anywhere but at Christen, but weirdly, keeps failing. _Do not look at her butt. Do NOT look at her butt,_ she instructs herself. _DO NOT look at her_ – the biking woman turns and gives Tobin a scandalized, angry stare, then speeds up and shoots away from her down the sidewalk. _Shit, was I saying that out loud!?_ “Sorry! I wasn’t talking…about you…” she calls weakly, even though the biker is now too far to hear.

 _Christen’s not even a real athlete_ , Tobin tells herself, firmly, this time making SURE she isn’t talking out loud. _Just speed up; you could pass her if you wanted to, so you won’t have to have her in your line of vision. There’s no way she can last for long._

Except—

Except that the plan does not quite go according to plan.

Except that even as Tobin reaches the end of her usual route, the spot where she’d normally turn around and head home, Christen still remains frustratingly far away, and in fact, actually seems to be inching further and further from Tobin.

With Christen still ahead, turning around would feel strangely like admitting defeat. _I’ll keep going until I catch her_ , Tobin decides, picking up her pace to what feels like a near-sprint.

At her new blistering pace, Tobin feels like she might actually pass out and die. But she doesn’t gain ground on Christen.

Fifteen minutes later, Tobin finally concedes defeat. She pulls up under a tree, soaked in sweat and panting for air. Christen runs on out of sight, her waving ponytail seemingly to sway mockingly at Tobin as she goes.

 _Shit, what is the matter with me this morning? I must be slower than usual_ , Tobin decides. She finally drags her body upright after a long breather. She turns and starts running back towards her apartment. _I can never tell Moe and the others about this_ , she thinks, as she lopes along, already feeling the ache in her quads. _I’ll just pretend it never happened_ _when I see them at practice._

Tobin freezes.

_…shit! Practice!_

She has practice today; she’d timed her day so that she’d head there right after her run. Except—she didn’t mean to go over a mile past her usual stopping point. She checks her watch. _Shit, shit, shit_. Even if she Ubers back to her apartment, she’s barely going to make it on time. _I’m such an idiot_ , she thinks, and then to make herself feel a little better, she also thinks, _but this time, it’s also Christen fucking Press’s fault_.

Her day just keeps getting better and better when she shows up to practice late and Rory assigns her an extra five laps around the pitch as punishment.

“Rory—listen—” Tobin attempts to protest. Her legs are still screaming at her from that morning’s futile, one-sided race against Christen Press. “I already said sorry that I was late—I already ran this morning, so much, you don’t even understand—”

“What you do on your own time has nothing to do with this team,” Rory growls. “You’re late to MY practices, you run for ME. Get going before I change my mind and make it ten.”

It’s not Rory’s anger that Tobin minds, really. The worst thing is the way her teammates scuff their cleats awkwardly into the grass, and clasp their hands behind their backs, and refuse to make eye contact with her. They’re all used to the routine now: _Tobin screws up, Tobin gets yelled at, Tobin pathetically attempts to fight back_. Only a few of the girls—Alyssa, Moe, Casey—dare to look her in the face. And even their glances are weighted down with pity. Unable to stand the shame for another moment, Tobin sprints off on her laps without another word.

She’s quiet all through practice, and when the other girls finally filter off the pitch in little groups of twos and threes, still avoiding eye contact, she stays. Alyssa comes up to her in her comforting, silent way, but Tobin waves her off, muttering that she’s just going to practice a little longer.

Under a blanket of gray clouds getting darker by the second, Tobin weaves and spins her way across the pitch, ball at her feet, for another hour. Alone on the pitch, just herself and the ball—it’s therapeutic. It’s calming. She dances up into the box and fires a shot into the upper third. The familiar way the ball _whooshes_ against the back of the net is satisfying.

Something’s missing, though, something the game used to bring her, something stronger than just calm or satisfaction: joy. Tobin hasn’t felt joy on the soccer field in months. She picks up the ball, grasps it in her palms, squeezes her eyes shut, and tries to will herself towards happiness.

It doesn’t work. She knew it wouldn’t. She still feels heavy, as heavy as the looming gray thunderclouds overhead. As the first droplets start to dot against the crown of her head, she gives up and heads back inside.

Bursting into the locker room, she’s surprised to see that there are a few people still there. It’s her friends, clustered around one of the benches. They jump when the door slams behind Tobin. Something’s off.

“What’s up?” Tobin asks, but even as the words are coming out of her mouth, she sees what they’re looking at.

Julie’s sitting on the bench, in the middle of the circle. She’s grinning. She’s holding the captain’s armband in her hands.

Tobin’s captain’s armband.

_Not mine anymore, I guess._

“Oh,” she says. “Oh. Well, congrats, Julie.” Her voice is leaden, robotic. She doesn’t even recognize it as her own.

Julie has the tact to look remorseful. “Listen, Tobin, I’m sorry. I swear, I didn’t ask for it or anything.”

“No, don’t apologize. You deserve it.” Tobin swings her locker open—does the metal door clang more loudly than usual in the silent locker room, or is it just her? She stares, unseeingly, into the crumpled, crowded mess of belongings inside. “Congrats. Seriously.”

“Rory told us to tell you he wants to see you in his office,” Casey says hesitantly. Her eyes are sad and uncertain. So are Alyssa’s and Moe’s. Not for the first time, Tobin hates herself even more for putting her friends in situations where they have to feel so awkward, have to do damage control for Tobin. “Do you want us to wait for you?”

“No, don’t wait.”

“Do you want one of us to go with you?” Moe offers cautiously.

Tobin slams her locker door shut. This time it’s definitely too loud—all the girls flinch. “So you can sit there and listen while he demotes me? Nah, man, I’m good.”

Moe opens her mouth to respond, but a warning hand on her shoulder from Alyssa holds her back. Tobin turns on her heel and leaves the locker room.

In a numb haze, she winds her way through the back hallways of the complex until she reaches Rory’s office. The door’s standing open, and she lets herself in without knocking. She slumps down into the familiar chair in front of Rory’s desk, back slouched and legs splayed wide.

Over a year ago, she perched on the edge of this very chair, grinning until her cheeks hurt, as Rory named her captain of the Red Stars. That felt like a lifetime ago. Like a different person entirely. More recently, she’d found herself in this chair over and over for disciplinary reasons. _Tardiness to practice. Lack of leadership. Bad attitude toward the rookies. Unnecessary fouls._ She’d known that it was only a matter of time until she was called in for this very reason.

“Tobin, thanks for coming. Listen—”

“I saw Julie already,” Tobin interrupted. She kept her eyes trained underneath the table, on her boot laces. “I know you’re making her captain.”

“Well, okay,” Rory said. It looked like neither of them was going to beat around the bush. “Tobin, I’m sure you understand why. This pattern of negligence—it can’t go on. If you weren’t Tobin Heath, I’d be trying to trade you. As it is, it doesn’t make any sense to keep you on as captain. What kind of example are you setting for the rookies? Where’s your sense of personal responsibility?”

There was that phrase, _personal responsibility_. Tobin had heard Rory use it before, though he didn’t know it. On a flight to an away game over the summer, Tobin had been sitting with her eyes closed, one aisle ahead of Moe and Rory.

_“I know she’s not at her best right now, but I think she’s going through something. She won’t tell us any details, but I think something happened around her birthday in May.” That was Moe’s voice. Tobin kept her head leaned against the window, pretending to be asleep. “I know you’ve been upset with her, but I think if you offered to talk to her—if you just gave her a chance to explain what she’s dealing with right now, it would mean a lot to her.”_

_“Morgan, Tobin is a fully grown adult,” Rory had responded. Tobin’s stomach sunk as she listened to his callous answer. “Her behavior recently has been unacceptable. If she’s dealing with personal issues, she needs to come to me directly to talk about them. That’s part of being an adult. It’s part of taking personal responsibility.”_

_“I’m just saying, I think she’d appreciate if you let her know you’re here for her—I mean, you’re her coach—” Moe had tried again._

_The tone in Rory’s voice was final. “She can come see me if she needs me.”_

He had never reached out to Tobin, other than to yell at her. She had never brought any problems to him—after all, to do so would be to admit that any problem existed. And she refused to do that. And so they had continued in a downwards spiral, leading to this very moment.

“Okay, well,” Tobin rises to her feet. “If that’s all…”

Rory raises an eyebrow. “I’ll be honest, Tobin. I thought you’d want to fight for this at least a little. Isn’t this a wakeup call for you?”

“Whatever. I agree with you. I don’t care. I don’t deserve captain,” Tobin snaps. She’s just exhausted, suddenly. A tight-gripping, headache-inducing, bone-deep exhaustion. She just wants to curl up on her couch and nap, or maybe drink an entire handle of vodka by herself. The fluorescent lights and weird plasticky smell of Rory’s office suddenly seem intolerable. She just wants to get out.

The look on Rory’s face is exasperated and condescending. He’s not concerned about Tobin, he’s just angry. “All right then, if it’s fine with you, it’s fine with me. But don’t say I didn’t warn you, Tobin. Don’t say I didn’t give you any chances.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Tobin mutters sarcastically. As she leaves, she slams this door, too.

The locker room is empty when she gets back. She doesn’t know whether she’s disappointed or not that her friends didn’t wait around. After snapping at Moe like that, though, she knows she deserves it.

In the shower, she carelessly turns the knobs all the way over, the water growing hotter and hotter until it’s almost painful against her skin, until she has to gasp through the steam to draw breath. This way, when she feels a pounding in her head, and a few stray tears leak of her eyes, she can blame it on the physical pain. She’s good at this, this deflecting. She always had been, and she’s gotten much better at it in the last few months. But when she feels deeper sobs, the heaving, uncontrollable kind, building low in her chest like a hurricane, she doesn’t let them out. She grits her teeth and swallows deep into an empty recess of her body, to deal with later. She refuses to cry in the locker room shower. _That’s some stereotypical baby shit_. When she finally turns the water off, her skin is red and raw. She stands silent in the little stainless steel shower, listening to the sound of water drops falling off the ends of her hair, with hollow _plunks_ that echo through the empty locker room.

_That handle of vodka is sounding pretty good right now._

But when she gets to the parking lot, to where she’d left her car double-parked across two spots in her haste to get into the stadium (wasted haste, since she was late anyway), she’s surprised: Alyssa’s car is parked next to hers. She can see Alyssa and Casey sitting in front, and when she draws closer, she can’t help but crack a tiny smile to see Moe sprawled across the backseat, fast asleep.

Casey rolls down the window as Tobin approaches. “Hey girl. What were you planning on doing tonight?”

Tobin shrugs. “Probably just sleep. Hard chill a little. You know.”

Alyssa raises her eyebrow.

“I know, I know, last time I said that I…” She doesn’t have to finish the sentence, and she knows that her friends won’t let her spend the night on her own again.

Last time she’d been in a foul mood and promised them she’d go home and sleep, she’d meant it. She really had. But then halfway home she decided to take a detour, and then she’d gotten wasted at a bar by herself. A blurry picture of her had ended up on Page Six. Granted, it was a tiny picture, since most people didn’t exactly care about women’s soccer stars. Plus, to add insult to injury, they’d spelled her name wrong: _Toni Heath_. Nevertheless, Rory had been livid. That had been one of the worse fights. Honestly, she’s surprised he’d even kept her on as captain after that.

It was probably because Moe or Alyssa had worked on her behalf behind the scenes, pleading for Rory to give her a second chance. As Tobin opens the back door and slides in beside Moe, she gives the other girl’s hand a little squeeze, wordlessly apologizing for earlier. Moe squeezes back. _Always nicer than I deserve_.

They end up at a little dive bar they love. It’s nestled in an area of town that’s gotten swankier and glitterier over the past ten years, but the bar has stuck to its guns, refused to sell, stayed the course. Contrasting with the five-star restaurants with valet parking surrounding it, it’s just the homey, comforting environment Tobin needs. She drinks several IPAs and cuddles into Casey’s side and listens to her friends talk about anything but soccer, to her great relief.

As her mind starts to fuzz around the edge, she thinks, _I don’t deserve these friends_. She thinks, _I need to treat them better; do better by them_. She always thinks like this when she’s drunk, or when she wakes up in the dead of night and can’t get back to sleep.

 _It’s funny_ , she thinks, _that most people get less rational when they drink_. _But I get more rational. I think all the thoughts I’m too cowardly to think by the light of day._ _But before I can act on anything, I’m sober again, and the cowardice hits. One day. One day I’ll be brave enough…_

Perhaps noticing that Tobin’s eyes are getting a little misty, Casey proposes walking back to her apartment nearby to eat ramen on the couch. Which is obviously the ideal way to spend any night. Tobin’s grateful for the out, and the girls tumble out of the booth. As Moe and Casey settle up at the bar, Alyssa and Tobin stand out in the chilly night air. October nights in Chicago are pretty frigid, and Tobin’s regretting the fact that she left practice in only a t-shirt and shorts.

“You don’t like bars, do you, Alyssa.” It’s not really a question, just a statement of fact.

Alyssa shrugs in acknowledgement.

“Well, thanks for coming. Just for me. Sorry you always have to take care of me.” Tobin is grateful that Alyssa is so much taller than she is. It makes it easier to lean her forehead against Alyssa’s shoulder.

Alyssa relaxes a little. Under it all, she’s a big softie, and Tobin brings it out in her more than anyone else. “We knew it wasn’t a good idea for you to be alone tonight,” she says simply. There’s a pause. “You know we’re here for you, Tobes.”

Alyssa’s words open little floodgates inside Tobin, reminding her of the events of the day. The pain starts trickling in: _You’re no longer the captain of the Chicago Red Stars. You’ve lost it. You’ve lost yourself_. She grits her teeth, leans harder into Alyssa, trying to shove it back, block it back out.

“I wish you’d talk to us.” Alyssa’s voice is little more than a whisper.

Tobin sniffles. “I know. I…”

Suddenly, Alyssa stiffens, and her posture change jolts Tobin back a little. Before Tobin can react, Alyssa’s looking over her shoulder, eyes wide.

And there’s a surprised, polite voice saying, “Alyssa, hi!”

Tobin turns, and—

It’s Christen Press. Of course.

_Two chance encounters in one day? How small is this fucking city?_

She’s coming out of a nearby restaurant with a crowd of other people, all dressed to the nines in luxurious peacoats and suits and formal dresses. Just like Tobin remembers, Christen looks formal and stunning and ice cold. Sparkling diamonds hang from her earlobes, and she’s wearing a long coat with a silky fur collar around her neck, a maroon dress, black stilettos—a far cry from Tobin’s messy appearance. Christen must not have registered that Tobin was the person standing with Alyssa, facing away from her, because at the sight of Tobin, her eyes go round, her mouth tightens in displeasure.

Tobin doesn’t react much better. Startled out of a rare moment of real sentiment only to see Christen standing there, she feels her emotions—almost without her, out of her control, as they so often are recently—swinging _hard_ the other direction, overcompensating for being caught vulnerable. She snaps roughly, “What are you doing here?” For a moment, panicky, she thinks there might still be tears standing in her eyes.

But it’s dark on the sidewalk, and the cold Chicago wind is blowing, and Christen doesn’t notice Tobin’s tears. Christen just lets her eyes drift slowly upwards to the sign of the five-star restaurant she’d just exited, then back down to Tobin with a raised eyebrow. “I’ll give you one guess,” she replies sarcastically.

Alyssa clears her throat. Clearly, being stuck in the peacekeeper role without Moe and Casey as backup is her worst nightmare. “Uh, how was dinner? Work event?”

Christen accepts the olive branch from Alyssa graciously, but she doesn’t look in Tobin’s direction when she responds. “Yes, actually. Well, sort of. They announced the cast of the Nutcracker for this winter season today, so the cast is here with the directing team. Sort of a celebratory dinner.”

Tobin knows—of course, she knows, logically—that Christen isn’t _meaning_ to rub in that she’s here for a work victory when Tobin’s here for a work defeat. But it still stings. The cynical jab comes out of her mouth before she can help it. “And let me guess, you’re the lead. Is your face going to be plastered all over the subway again? Who are you playing, the Nutcracker?”

She can feel Alyssa radiating disapproval next to her, and for a second, she almost considers walking it back.

“The Nutcracker’s not even a female role. Christen’s the Sugar Plum Fairy, of course.”

The answer, exasperated and condescending, comes from a girl who steps up next to Christen. Like Christen, she’s dressed up, with glittering earrings and a face full of makeup. And like Christen, she looks down her nose at Tobin disdainfully. But she’s just a kid. Her face is round, and she looks like she can’t be more than fifteen. So—although Tobin wants to snort out loud at the name of the role (the Sugar Plum Fairy, really?)—even Tobin, at her worst, can’t quite bring herself to be mean to a kid.

“This is Mallory Pugh. Mal.” Christen puts an arm around the shorter girl protectively. “She’s our Clara this year. It’s a huge honor. We choose one student from the ballet academy every year to play Clara, and she’s the youngest ever. It’s really her we’re celebrating tonight.”

Okay, well, now Tobin feels a little guilty for her outburst.

“Mal, this is Alyssa and Tobin. They play on the Red Stars. Remember I told you about meeting them a couple weeks ago?”

“Oh, of course I remember.” Mal’s scornful expression towards Tobin conveys, in no uncertain terms, the substance of what Christen must have told her about that meeting.

Suddenly, Tobin feels an overwhelming urge to turn tail and run, to be at home, alone. In the face of such judgment from this _kid_ —judgment she’s too stubborn to acknowledge she probably deserves—the bone-tiredness from earlier comes crashing back over her, rolling her under like an ocean wave. Suddenly, she barely has the energy to stay standing.

“Lyss, I’m going to go,” she mutters, right as Moe and Casey are walking up behind them. “Mal, nice meeting you. Christen.”

“Tobes, are you sure?” Moe asks, and Casey simultaneously protests, “Hey, wait, you didn’t drive here.”

“I’m sure. I’ll take an Uber back to the stadium; I’ll be fine.” Tobin brushes off their concern and jogs off into the night. She doesn’t look back in Christen’s direction—she’s sure the other girl’s face will be filled with nothing but contempt. But she hears Mal’s little voice fading in the distance: “Was it something I said?”

The Tobin of a year ago—a better, kinder Tobin—would’ve rushed back to reassure her, _no, it’s not your fault at all_. To be real, the Tobin of a year ago wouldn’t even have been in this position to begin with. Wouldn’t have been nasty to near-strangers on a random city sidewalk. Wouldn’t have been on a random city sidewalk because she wouldn't need to be babysat by her friends. Wouldn’t have needed babysitting because she wouldn't have lost the captainship.

The Tobin of today is clear-eyed enough to know she’s done wrong, to feel wretched and miserable—but not strong enough to go back and fix things. So instead, she walks an hour in the freezing wind back to her car: a penance only she knows about, that only she can inflict on herself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Did I stress-write 5,000 words while waiting until the wee hours of the morning for final Georgia and Pennsylvania returns? (A futile effort, since the vote counts still have not come out?) Why yes, yes I did. Hope you are all mentally holding up better than I am.

“So…I have news you might not like.”

Tobin groans and slams her forehead, just a tiny bit too hard, into the front of her locker. The impact shivers, metallic and achy, through her jaw and down the sides of her neck. “My god, what is it now.”

“Well, which do you want first?” Moe continues. “The bad news? Or the…even worse news?”

“Moe, just _tell me_.” Tobin keeps her eyes closed and her head resting against the locker. Pre-game music is blasting through the locker room. It’s already an awful day: it’s a game day, the first one since Julie took over as captain. The spot where the captain’s armband used to rest on Tobin’s arm feels raw and naked, like an uncovered wound, and the sight of the armband on Julie’s arm sends twists through her stomach. Though she knows it’s not Julie’s fault, she can barely make eye contact with her.

“Remember that night we ran into Christen Press and her ballet friend outside of the bar?”

“Yeah, what about it?” The day had officially just gone from bad to worse—after all, every day Tobin went without hearing the name _Christen Press_ was a win in her book. _Had a 9-day streak going, and Moe just blew it_.

“Well, after you left, Casey really hit it off with them.”

Tobin groans aloud and rolls her eyes. “Seriously?!”

“Listen, it’s not like we can police who Casey makes friends with,” Alyssa noted dryly from the other side of Moe.

Sure, that might’ve been a reasonable take, but Tobin wasn’t in a particularly reasonable mood. “Fuck. Well, as long as Casey doesn’t like, talk about her in front of me, or make us hang out, it’s whatever. Okay, was that the bad news or the worse news?”

Moe gulps, adjusting the sleeve of her jersey without making eye contact. “Uh, that was the bad news. The worse news is that Casey invited her to the game today…”

“ _What?_ ”

“…and to come out with us after the game.”

“ _WHAT?_ ”

“Tobin—”

“Okay, so maybe we can’t police who Casey makes friends with, but we _sure as fucking hell_ can police who comes out with the team after games, and _Christen Press_ cannot _fucking_ come out with us after the game—”

“It’s not like Casey knew anything about your history with her,” Moe argues. “Casey wasn’t there with us on the first day. But anyway, I’m sure it’ll be fine! It's not like you have to interact.”

“Yeah, you won’t even see her in the crowd,” Alyssa adds comfortingly, as Tobin angrily fidgets with her shin guards and tugs her socks up and down. “And there’s a big group going out after the game. It’ll be easy for you to keep your distance from her. We’ll run interference, right, Moe?”

Resigned, Tobin trails her friends out of the locker room into the hallway.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have told her,” she overhears Moe whispering to Alyssa.

“No, this is better. Would you rather have her just look up into the stands and suddenly see Christen Press’s face? I think the tickets Casey got her are right behind the bench…”

Usually, Tobin loves the roar of the crowd as they emerge from the tunnel. It’s like you can feel the energy from thousands of people, radiating down towards you, infusing your veins with sunlight and fierceness and pure grit. Today, though, as they troop out in a straight line, the stares unnerve her. She feels like every one of those thousands of pairs of eyes are zeroed in on her, and on the blank spot on her arm.

 _Hey, why isn’t Tobin the captain today?_ She pictures thousands of people thinking. _It must be because she’s an epic failure at everything she does._

In particular, there’s one pair of green eyes that fills her with a sense of unease. Christen Press, as promised, is sitting in a prime seat a few rows behind the Red Stars bench. The kid from the other night, Mallory Pugh, is next to her. They’re waving at Casey, all cheery and nice, which somehow makes Tobin even angrier.

Tobin grinds her cleats into the grass, tells herself to block it all out—the crowds and the judgment, the empty spot on her arm, the piercing gaze of those jade green eyes—and just focus on the game. The beautiful game. Soccer has been the one thing that brings her some semblance of calm and happiness, but today as the opening whistle blows and all she can manage to feel is misery and nervousness, Tobin realizes that soccer, too, has been taken from her.

She plays okay, but not with any satisfaction. She feels slow, sloppy. She takes two corners, and blames herself when they don’t result in goals. Rather than toying with defenders, she gets nervous and sends the ball back into the midfield again and again. The third time she passes back to Moe, Moe seems almost angry to find the ball at her feet. “Tobin, come _on_!” Moe shouts after she sends it up to Kealia and they’re all moving up the field. “ _Press!_ ”

Instinctively, without even realizing what she’s doing, Tobin turns and finds Christen Press in the stands. The rest of the crowd seems to fade into a blur of iridescent colors, as hazel eyes meet green for a long, stunned moment.

Then the ball whooshes within inches of Tobin’s face. It flies past her, out of bounds, as she’s caught standing still and looking off into the distance.

The stadium fills with boos.

“What the fuck, Tobin?!” Julie yells.

“Tobin, I meant _press_!” Moe waves her arms desperately in the direction of the goal. “Like, press, UP, up the field!”

“I thought you meant…” Tobin lets the end of her sentence taper off pathetically, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the dancers in the stands.

“Why the hell would you think I meant ‘look at Christen Press’? In the middle of a game?! Oh, my god!” Even Moe’s angry as Kristie Mewis, from the Houston team, smugly runs over to take the throw-in.

 _Why the hell WOULD I think that_? Tobin screams internally at herself as the minutes tick down until halftime. _This is ridiculous. Why is Christen Press getting in my head like this?_

Rory’s livid at halftime, and he takes her out—deservedly—at the sixtieth minute. She slouches down on the bench with the hood of her jacket pulled high over her ears for the rest of the game, only rising to her feet to clap and fist-pump a little as Kealia gets a header in the eightieth minute.

 _At least it wasn’t Julie_ , she thinks, then immediately hates herself for being so petty.

When the final whistle blows, all she wants to do is sprint off the bench straight into the locker room, take a scalding hot shower, and head home to burrow down in bed. But there are all the obligatory things to do, which she does—because no matter what she tells herself, she knows deep down that at the end of the day, she cares what people think. She cares a lot—maybe too much. So she takes a lap of the field with the other girls, waving and signing autographs. (When they approach the section where Christen and Mal are sitting, she jogs over to chat with one of the trainers, then catches up with the team after they’ve moved on.) She congratulates Kealia on her goal. As the crowds start trickling out, she sits in the grass with Alyssa for a while. They lift their faces to the sun, side by side, palms buried in the grass. She’s grateful for Alyssa’s silence.

She almost leaves for the locker room, _almost_ , when she sees Casey inviting Christen and Mal down onto the field. They’re laughing and joking together like old friends, and Tobin feels a surge of irrational jealousy at the ease with which Casey—warm, smiley, enthusiastic Casey—is able to gather new friends around her. Christen and Mal are laughing, their faces lit up in a way that Tobin has never seen before, as Casey tries to instruct them on how to kick a soccer ball.

Casey positions the ball on the grass for Mal, who screws up her face in concentration, hands planted on her hips. If Tobin wasn’t determined to hate Christen Press and everything to do with her, including her friends, Tobin might’ve even admitted that Mal was kind of adorable. Mal misses entirely on her first attempt, and she doubles over laughing at herself.

Christen’s first attempt, however, goes sailing from the midfield… _into the goal_.

Tobin glares. She doesn’t even need to look at Alyssa to imagine the impressed expression on her face.

“That was far. Her legs must be really strong,” Alyssa says.

Tobin grumbles, “It’s not like there was a goalkeeper, anyway.” As Casey and Christen exchange high fives, she turns to lie on her back, face to the clouds, so she doesn’t have to watch anymore.

* * *

When Tobin was little, her parents and her pastor used to say that alcohol was a sin. And so now, though she’s already a full-fledged adult, Tobin always still feels a little sinful when she enters a crowded bar. It’s the same way she feels a little dirty and queasy inside when she walks into a fluorescent-lit liquor store, _like God is watching, and He knows you’re going to be shit-faced in two hours, and He’s going to be very disappointed in you, you dirty little sinner_.

Pushing those thoughts aside, Tobin breathes in the faint smell of sawdust and liquor as she follows the girls to the back room. It’s comforting to sit in a dark corner booth, lit only by the colorful Christmas lights twinkling overhead, with a Top 40 song playing just loudly enough overhead. Plus, Alyssa was right—it’s quite a crowd tonight. The Dash girls definitely know how to bring a party. And big parties—where Tobin can fade off into the darkness without anyone noticing—are quickly becoming her favorite.

Sandwiched between Moe and Kristie Mewis, Tobin’s already several beers in when Casey suddenly shows up at the end of their table. And right behind her— _ugh_ —is Christen Press.

“You guys have room for two more here?” Casey asks, all chipper as usual, already pulling up chairs. “Sorry we’re late, we had to drop Mal off at home. She’s not 21 yet.”

The word _no_ is on the tip of Tobin’s tongue, but she doesn’t want to cause a scene, so she sinks back in her seat and tries to keep her expression neutral. (Moe looks over at her and mouths, _Be nice_. Clearly she needs to work on her neutral face.) And then suddenly Kristie, eyes wide at the sight of Christen, is loudly saying, “Yes, yes, of course there’s room.”

“Who the _hell_ is _she_?” Kristie demands as soon as Casey and Christen walk off to get their drinks. “No, seriously, who is that, and why have I not been informed of her presence until now?”

“She’s a ballerina we met through a Nike thing,” Moe laughs. “Sorry, Kristie, but she’s based in Chicago.”

“Who says I’m looking for a long term thing? I’m newly single; I’m on the hunt for a rebound. And a ballerina, huh? That’s hot.” Kristie sinks back in her seat and takes a swig of her beer.

“She doesn’t seem like much of a one-night stand person,” Moe adds, still laughing.

“Well…” Kristie just smirks. “As you know, I like a challenge.” Her eyes drift towards the counter where Christen and Casey are waiting to order.

“Anyway, she’s straight, isn’t she?” Tobin blurts out. Something about the way Kristie’s keen blue eyes are raking up and down Christen’s body makes Tobin feel, all of a sudden, like she’s about to throw up all the beer she just drank. _Why is everyone throwing themselves all over her? Why is everyone admiring her? She’s not admirable!_

“…no, she’s not straight,” Alyssa said slowly. “Have you looked her up? There are a bunch of articles about her, and what it’s like to be out in the ballet world—”

“Yeah, there’s a ton of press about her in general,” Kristie pipes up, scrolling eagerly on her phone. “Dang, look at these pictures. Oh, my god, she’s so hot.”

Tobin breathes a sigh of relief as Casey and Christen head back to the table, and thankfully, all conversation about how hot Christen Press is is cut short. But she relaxes too soon: the conversation quickly turns to the Nike program, and how all the other girls have been looking at kids’ applications already, to choose their mentees. _Are we already supposed to be doing that?_ She fumbles with her phone underneath the table, trying to open the web portal in Safari to take a look, but getting stuck on her password.

“I’ve got 10 kids on my queue, and it’s so hard to choose just one,” Moe laments. “I know that they’ve already made it into the program so they all get the funding, but I also want to like, hang out with all of them, you know? They’re all so cute!”

“Well, that’s what the group activities are for, so at least there’s that to look forward to.” Christen chimes in. “I get what you’re saying, though. I’ve been reading all the applicants’ files that are uploaded so far. A lot of them are promising, but I feel like I’m still waiting for _the one_ , you know? The one with the special spark. I think I’m going to give it another week or so before I mentally commit to anyone.”

Moe and Alyssa are agreeing, and Tobin’s squirming. Clearly, everyone else has done their homework, and she’s way behind.

Casey turns and says, “What about you, Tobin? I bet the kids are dying to be matched with you.” She turns to Christen and explains, cheerily, “You always see kids wearing Tobin’s jerseys around town. She’s like, the most popular player on our team!”

“Oh,” Christen says, frigidly polite. “ _Really_?”

_Crazy, isn’t it, how she can make two simple syllables sound so insulting._

Tobin hastily slams her phone face down on the table, wishing she wasn’t so many drinks in already, trying to think fast. “Um…what?”

“Have you been looking at the kids’ applications yet?” Casey repeated. 

“We got an email a few weeks ago saying that the screened applications are online,” Moe chimes in. “You have to pick someone, Tobin.”

“I know,” Tobin says, a little snappishly. With Christen Press sitting there all cold and judgey, the last thing she wants to do is admit to how scatter-brained and incompetent she is—even if it’s true. “I…uh…I’ve looked already,” she lies.

“And?” Moe says curiously. Every eye at the table is on Tobin.

“Um, well, I think…” Tobin clasps and unclasps her pint glass. Panicking a little, she blurts, “Um, it’s…it’s like what Christen said. I agree. They’re all really interesting, but there’s not really one that sticks out, you know?”

The conversation carries on. Tobin sneaks a glance at Christen out of the corner of her eye. The other girl is looking away from Tobin, but with pleasant surprise still evident in her face, her green eyes softened and sparkling with the reflection of the lights overhead. She probably hadn’t expected Tobin to agree with her. _And honestly, if I hadn’t been totally cornered by Moe, I never would have_ , Tobin thought grumpily.

As the music grows louder and louder, the area immediately around their table starts turning into more of a dance floor. Eventually, the girls escape, scattering to various corners of the room. Tobin and Alyssa find themselves lounging by the pool table. “Nice, extending the olive branch with Christen earlier,” Alyssa says approvingly as she racks up the pool balls.

“I didn’t _mean_ to extend an olive branch.” Tobin glares across the room at where Christen and Kristie are leaning against a wall, sipping on girly little cocktails and dismissively waving off guys that are hitting on them. “I didn’t want to. She doesn’t deserve olives.”

Alyssa snickers. “Okay, I’m going to say something you’re going to find controversial.”

Tobin braces herself. “If this is about Christen Press—”

“Tobes. Come on. She’s really not that bad.”

“Not that bad?!” Tobin asks incredulously, fingers clenching involuntarily around her cue. “She’s a total bitch!”

“She’s a little on the…formal side,” Alyssa admits. “I think you guys just got off on the wrong foot.”

“Did you hear her earlier when Casey said that I was the most popular player?” Tobin demands.

Alyssa pauses. She clearly does not recall. “Uh, what did she say?”

“She said…” Tobin pauses for dramatic effect. “ _Really_?”

Alyssa stares for a second, then bursts out laughing. “Tobin, that’s a normal, generic response.”

“No, she was skeptical, and her tone was rude,” Tobin insists. “And okay, fine, but on that first day at the park, she literally said that soccer wasn’t art.”

“When did she say that?”

“That interview she gave!”

Alyssa neatly knocks a ball into a pocket and straightens up, sighing. “Tobin, she didn’t say that in her interview. I found it online after that event, since you got so worked up over it. She just said that she hoped ballet would bring some beauty into this Nike youth program. I didn’t think that was a particularly vicious thing to say.”

“Listen, it sounded worse when she said it,” Tobin fights back stubbornly. “Maybe it was that snotty expression on her face.”

Alyssa lets out a long sigh. “Whatever you say, Tobin. But whatever it is you have against her, I think you should figure it out. For your own good. If she and Casey get closer, she’s going to be hanging out with us a lot more. And, also—that thing with her during the game today? What was that all about?”

Tobin has really been hoping that nobody would bring that up. She downs the rest of her beer—there’s a lot, so it takes a while. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She examines the pool table, looking for her next shot.

She glances up. After all that, Alyssa’s still looking at her, patiently waiting for an answer. Tobin sighs. That’s the thing with Alyssa. She never gets distracted.

“I don’t know, okay?” Tobin mutters. She sneaks a glance across the room, to where Christen and Kristie have been joined by Moe and Casey. They’re turning down yet another pack of dudes. “Moe said ‘press’ and…I don’t know. I guess Christen was at the front of my mind, because I didn’t like that she was there, watching. So when I heard Moe say it, I just thought that’s what she was talking about.”

“Okay, well…” Alyssa sounds worried. “If this is actually going to affect your game, maybe we should talk to Casey inviting her in the future after all. We can’t have you distracted like this.”

“No, it’s fine,” Tobin says loudly—maybe a little too loudly. She’s finally starting to feel the combined effects of all the beer she’s had that night; the room is a little fuzzy, and there’s a familiar, pleasant, tingly heat rising in her neck, her ears, her spine. No matter how much she dislikes Christen, she doesn’t want to drag sweet, happy-go-lucky Casey into this mess. “It’s fine. I’ll figure it out. I need to stop letting her get in my bed.”

Alyssa barely manages to stifle a laugh into a strange cough. “Do you mean…in your head?”

“Yeah,” Tobin says, confused and a little irritated, “that’s what I said.”

Across the room, Christen and Kristie are turning down a third set of guys. Tobin doesn’t want to watch anymore. “I’m going to get another drink. Want anything?”

“Nah, I’m going to catch up with Jane and the other Dash girls. Come find us, okay? I think they’re in the side room.”

But Tobin never makes it to the side room, because weaving through the crowded dance floor on the way to the bar, she’s accosted by several girls with suggestive, sultry stares. She’s used to this happening at bars. A few hands linger on her shoulders, her arms, and it doesn’t take much to convince her to stay. Tobin’s a naturally good dancer, all smooth moves and effortless swag. The dance floor is dark and loud and packed with bodies; just the way she likes it. It makes it easier to blend in, lose herself in the heat and the crowd and the thrumming bass, and pretend she’s invisible. Well…invisible to everyone but the few girls flitting around her like scantily-clad little vultures.

 _Maybe I’ll call it a night with the team, take this one home_ , Tobin thinks, closing her eyes and swaying to the beat as one girl with a glossy brown bob, getting bolder, backs into Tobin and starts grinding her ass on her. _How clean is the apartment right now? Definitely still a wreck. But hey, the girls never seem to mind_. _No food in the fridge—ugh, I need to make a grocery run—but there’s beer._ _And no practice tomorrow, either_ , _so we can keep at it all morning_ …

Something’s a little off tonight, though. Normally, by now, she’d probably be making out with this girl with abandon, ready to wrap an arm around her waist and whisper, low and hot in her ear, “Let’s get out of here.” But tonight, she feels frustratingly clear-headed, and strangely uneasy, and definitely _not_ turned on. She had wanted to fade out of sight and melt into the darkness, the way she normally did on a dance floor. But tonight she felt strangely visible. Like there were discerning eyes out there, eyes on her.

“I’m, uh…” Tobin disentangles herself from the girl’s arms, which are now thrown around her neck. She shouts, “I’m going to get a drink. Want anything?”

The girl’s lips are moving, and Tobin can’t hear a damn thing, but she nods and flashes a thumbs up and worms her way out of the crowd.

She draws a long, soothing breath as she reaches the edge of the dance floor. The bartender is busy with a group of girls perusing the menu, so she boosts herself onto a barstool, tapping her toe against one of the legs and whistling to herself.

Without even thinking, her fingers dip into her jacket pocket for her phone. She winces at the brightness of the screen in the dark bar—she almost closes it—but then, even though she knows she shouldn’t, her fingers wander over to Twitter. Then she opens it.

It takes a second for her eyes to process, but of course, there it is. The very first tweet she sees from a prominent Chicago sports journalist confirms it:

_Of course, the question everyone is asking: Why wasn’t Tobin Heath wearing the captain’s armband today? Combined with her sloppy play—literally turning her back to the ball and letting it out of bounds—you have to wonder if something is going on, off the field._

There’s no air in Tobin’s lungs. She blinks hard, but when her eyes open, there are the words again, taunting her. _Why wasn’t Tobin Heath wearing the captain’s armband? Sloppy play. Something going on._

 _Just put your phone away_ , screams the last scrap of self-preservation in her brain. But she doesn’t, of course. Tobin’s never been good at self-preservation. She scrolls on. The next tweet is a post-game interview with Julie. Julie, Captain Julie, beautiful good-girl Julie, somehow managing to talk a mile a minute all while maintaining that toothy, beauty-queen smile. Her finger drifts over the play button. Maybe she’ll click on it. _Just to hear a little bit of it. Just to see if she talks about how great it is to be captain. Just to hear if they ask her, hey, what the fuck is wrong with Tobin Heath_ —

“Um, hey.”

Tobin’s still staring down at her phone, biting her lip, warring with herself on whether or not to watch the cursed Julie video. It takes her a beat to realize that someone’s talking to her. She looks up.

It’s Christen. She’s standing there with her hands in her pockets, her posture a little cautious. 

“Oh, it’s you.” Tobin’s too surprised, and a little too tipsy, to come up with an answer that’s cleverer or politer than that.

Seemingly undeterred by Tobin’s short answer, Christen slides onto the empty barstool next to her. While Tobin’s slouched so far down on the stool that her butt is in danger of sliding off the edge, Christen perches gracefully, back ramrod-straight and legs primly crossed. She’s wearing the most casual outfit Tobin has seen on her—dark jeans and a tight white sleeveless crop top. Large silver hoops sway against her silky, dark hair as she reaches over to pick up a menu.

“Where’s Kristie?” Tobin asks sarcastically. “She’s into you, you know.” The alcohol is making Tobin snarkier, and chattier, than usual. She doesn’t know what she’s expecting—maybe for Christen to look down and get all shy and blush and stutter. She just wants to get a rise out of this perfect, poised ballerina.

But instead, Christen smirks, self-assured and a little risqué. Her confidence catches Tobin off guard, and for some reason, Tobin finds herself having some difficulty drawing her next breath. “Oh, I know,” Christen says, raising an eyebrow. “She wasn’t trying to be subtle.”

“And…?” Tobin’s really not sure why she’s following up on this, but it’s like her mouth has a mind of its own.

Christen takes her sweet time answering, absentmindedly perusing the menu with the tip of her tongue sticking out between her teeth as she thinks. “Maybe I’ll get a…Glitterati.”

Tobin snorts. _Of course she’d choose that drink_.

She continues, still smirking, “Not in the cards tonight, I’m afraid, but I think we’re going to be good friends. And I gave her some names at the Houston Ballet so she can look a little closer to home.” She places the menu neatly down on the counter. “Good game today, by the way. I thought you did well.”

“Really?” Tobin snorts derisively. “Well, that makes one person in all of Chicago.”

Christen’s green eyes flick downwards, towards Tobin’s glowing phone screen. Too late, Tobin turns her phone off and shoves it back in her pocket. She hopes that tweet wasn’t visible. She doesn’t want to talk to this picture-perfect ice queen, of all people, about all her professional failures.

“I can never go on social media after a performance,” Christen muses, almost to herself, as she looks around for a bartender. “It’s so easy to let the haters get in your head.”

“Haters?” Tobin hears the sarcasm dripping from her voice as she drums her fingers idly on the counter. “Surely _you_ don’t have any haters, with your little, you know, ballet slippers and dancing, and the whole…” She waves her fingers in scornful little air-circles around her head and then in bigger circles around her waist. The way Christen’s spine stiffens up and her expression grows cold, she’s obviously picked up that Tobin’s scornfully gesturing towards a flower crown and tutu. She flinches forward, as if about to rise from the chair and leave.

“You know, Tobin,” she says stiffly, “Casey keeps going on and on about how great you are…” she trails off, and her silence speaks volumes about exactly what she thinks of Casey’s opinion.

“Wow,” Tobin retorts, “I’m surprised you even know my name without a nametag on.”

Tobin means for it to come out snarky, but it just sounds sad. In fact, it must sound way sadder than she intended, because Christen’s face takes on an uncomfortable, guilty expression. It’s almost pity, and Tobin can’t stand that. _I didn’t feel hurt when you told me you didn’t know my name_ , she wants to shout. _You didn’t make me feel hurt_. _I don’t hurt_.

Luckily, the long, awkward moment is interrupted by the bartender. He slides up, places a peachy, fizzy cocktail on a napkin in front of Tobin, and nods towards the end of the bar. “From that girl over there.”

Tobin doesn’t look over. As he zips away, Tobin pulls the cocktail towards her. She gives it a disinterested swirl, then hands it over to Christen. “Here.”

Christen’s fingers close automatically around the glass as it’s shoved at her, but her face is indignant. “Tobin, that girl just bought you this drink! You can’t just turn around and hand it to another girl!”

“Why not?” Tobin asks bluntly, already trying to wave the bartender down for a beer.

“It’s just rude!”

“This is the one you wanted,” Tobin explains exasperatedly, “the Glitterati. It’s got, like, rose syrup and passion fruit puree in it. There’s literally rose petals. Do I look like a rose petal person?! Clearly whoever sent this is a bad judge of character.”

“Well, maybe…” Christen’s smirking again, and Tobin finds herself momentarily distracted from finding the bartender, “…maybe she knows you’re secretly a softie on the inside who loves rose petals.”

While Tobin’s opening her mouth to protest this totally inaccurate and insulting characterization, Christen adds, “Also, if I take this, that girl is _for sure_ going to murder me in my sleep.”

Tobin finally turns. It’s the girl from before, with the short brown hair, the one she was dancing with. And she is, indeed, staring daggers at Christen, who’s still holding the drink in her hand.

Christen gives Tobin a pointed look, raises an eyebrow, and holds the drink out. “Don’t be rude. She’s into you. You’re not going to go for it?”

Tobin groans. _Okay, fine_. She’s had enough of this night, and of Christen’s know-it-all attitude and little arching eyebrows and bright green eyes and infuriating smirks. She wants to stop talking. She wants to stop feeling. She just wants her goddamn beer.

“Fuck it, whatever, I’ll drink it.” Tobin takes the drink from Christen, fishes out two soggy rose petals with her pointer finger. “And Casey’s wrong, you know.”

“Wrong about what?”

“I’m not great. She’s wrong. So you can feel free to go back to hating me.” Tobin tips her head back and chugs the entire frothy, sugary monstrosity in one go. She slaps the glass onto the counter and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “It’s disgusting,” she informs Christen as she hops off the barstool, “You should order something else.”

Without looking back, she marches over to the end of the bar. The girl, who’s been watching, gives Tobin a self-satisfied little smirk as she approaches.

“What’s your name?” Tobin asks abruptly.

“I’m Lisa,” she says. “I’m—”

“Lisa. Great. Let’s get out of here,” Tobin interrupts. “My place?”

The girl’s eyes widen in surprise, but then her face settles into a smug, victorious expression. “Or mine? My apartment is just around the corner.”

“Fine,” Tobin says distractedly. As the girl and Tobin saunter towards the door, Tobin sees her cast a triumphant glance back in the direction of the bar, where Christen is sitting alone. It’s clear that this girl thinks she won: she thinks she lured Tobin away from the hottie fighting for Tobin’s attention at the bar. She doesn’t know that Christen had basically given Tobin a condescending pat on the head and sent her away.

But Tobin wants to feel like she’s won, too, at something, at _just one thing_. So she makes a show of putting her arm around the girl’s waist as they walk, and she doesn’t look back.

But inside, she knows better.

Long past midnight, as she slips, naked, out from between the girl’s sheets and picks up her clothes from the ground, silently, so she won’t wake her up…as she dresses in the dark kitchen and lets herself out of the apartment…as she realizes, sitting in her Uber, _I don’t think I even told her my name_ …as she takes a scalding hot shower back in her own apartment…she knows better. It was not a win; like seemingly every other interaction she’s ever had with Christen Press, it was a loss. And she knows it was a loss because of the way it leaves her feeling strangely hollow inside. Uneasy—almost exposed, like someone had shone a searchlight into her messy, awful, comforting darkness and said, judgmentally, “Oh, there you are.”

She slips into her own bed. In the darkness, she picks up her phone. The screen tells her it’s 2:54 AM. She’s about to head back to Twitter, but it’s like she hears Christen’s voice from before in her head, _It’s so easy to let the haters get in your head_.

Her fingers hover over the screen. _Go to sleep_ , that self-preserving part of her brain pleads.

Instead, her fingers find the search bar and type, _Chicago ballet company Christen Press_.


	4. Chapter 4

One bleak, gray November morning, Tobin finally takes a look at the kids she has to choose from for the Nike program. That day, Tobin had been—at least by her recent standards—remarkably productive. She’d gone on a long lakeside run, an hour earlier than usual. (Her body roared complaints about being roused at 5 AM, but her brain roared louder that it did not want to run into Christen Press again, on a breezy, smug, unfairly fast run with her fancy puppy and fancy Lululemon workout clothes. In a rare show of strength, her brain actually won.)

She’s back in her apartment by 8 AM. In that self-righteous glow that accompanies a productive early morning, she settles on the couch with a mug of coffee and an actual breakfast (okay, just yogurt, but that’s more than usual) and damp post-shower hair, ready to finally tackle her list of Nike mentees.

Tobin scrolls through an impossibly long list of applications, skimming plaintive personal statements about soccer-loving elementary school kids. Kids who love the game, but can’t afford it. Kids who go hungry night after night to afford a new pair of cleats. Kids who saved up for a year to afford a single ticket to a Red Stars game.

As she reads, acid grows in her throat and her head starts aching, until she finally slams the lid of her laptop down. She stares out the windows at the dark, low-hanging storm clouds and picks anxiously at her hangnails, biting at the inside of her cheeks until it starts stinging.

Who is she, to be a mentor to any of these kids? Who is she to mentor anyone? She’s no role model. Her own life is in shambles—personally, professionally, mentally, emotionally, whatever, spin the wheel, take your pick. These kids already sound twice as driven, twice as inspiring, twice as noble as she is.

 _If_ _anything, I should try getting some mentoring from these ten-year-olds_ , she thinks bitterly.

Things would be different if she were a bubbly, sweet, happy-go-lucky girl like Moe. Like Casey.

Or like Christen Press. _Now there’s a cookie-cutter role model for you_.

The other night, Tobin had scrolled through Christen Press’s social media accounts for hours, until she was shocked to see the sky gray-tinged with morning haze outside her window. Of course, it wasn’t because she was particularly intrigued by the ballerina— _of course_ not. It was just a morbid fascination with how some people presented themselves on social media, all perfect and shiny, Tobin told herself firmly.

She’d been amazed to see that the ballerina had three million Instagram followers— _probably what happens when the city of Chicago plasters a hot girl’s face all over the subway for an entire summer_. And each Instagram post glowed with this hazy pinkish-beige hue, like Christen Press spent her entire existence under an effervescent mist of a sparkly VSCO filter.

 _Teaching my weekly Friday pointe class at the Chicago Art Academy! Watching you girls develop brings me so much joy_ , on a group photo with a bunch of mini-me’s in pink leotards and high buns, all laughing merrily together. ( _So staged, ugh_ , Tobin thought.)

 _Autumn in Chicago,_ with a black heart emoji, on a picture of the lakefront. ( _Oh, she’s one of those basic girls who stops to take a trillion photos on her runs, isn’t she?_ )

 _Even as a morning person, sometimes I get so busy that it just feels like there’s not enough time to get ready! On those days, love my La Mer SPF foundation for tackling my complexion and my sun protection in one easy step! #ad,_ on a cheery selfie, holding up a bottle of foundation. ( _Okay, thanks for the humblebrag that you’re a morning person—holy SHIT, this foundation is $140!_ )

All the Instagram stalking had cemented one conclusion in Tobin’s mind—Christen Press was a superficial princess, and they couldn’t be more dissimilar.

But to be honest, though she had hated the insipid cheeriness of Christen Press’s Instagram with every fiber of her being, it had all made her feel a little guilty about her own shitty excuse at a social media presence. She usually posts one lame photo a month on Instagram, and can’t even remember her Twitter password. For a second, she had lain there in the rapidly-lightening bedroom, thinking about posting a new picture to Instagram. Maybe she’d go extra creative with the caption and throw in an orange heart next to the usual shaka sign-soccer ball combo.

But suddenly that tweet from earlier that night rose to the forefront of her mind— _sloppy play, something’s off, no longer captain_ —and the thought of posting any picture of herself in the Red Stars jersey made her want to vomit.

(Or, hm, maybe that was just the effects of the copious amounts of beer she had drunk. Probably both.)

 _Whatever_. Tobin had tossed her phone, dangerously low on battery from her Christen Press-stalking, into a pile of dirty laundry across the room, and proceeded to sleep the rest of the day away.

Today, she’s got a similar idea on how to while away the hours until their afternoon practice. The bitterness of looking through the applications has promptly crushed her short-lived good mood. She’s heading back towards her bed, bemoaning the fact that it’s too early in the day for a beer ( _or is it?_ ) when her phone pings.

 **Casey** : _Moe, Fabrice, Cody, and I are going out to brunch. Want to come? It’ll be fun!_

For a split second, it’s heartwarming. Maybe what she needs is to get out of her apartment, see some people. But it only takes that split second to read the names and do the math.

_Fuck no, I’m not about to fifth wheel this couple’s brunch._

**Tobin** : _No thx, have fun tho!_

 **Casey** : _You sure? I’ve invited Christen and Mal as well, so it wouldn’t just be you and the lovebirds, if that’s what you’re worried about!_

Tobin laughs outright, cynical and harsh, and so loud in the silent apartment that it even shocks herself a little.

Of all the things Casey could possibly have said, nothing could have been less effective in convincing Tobin to go.

 **Tobin** : _Busy today, sorry! See you at practice_

The thought of Christen Press, laughing and chatting with _Tobin’s_ friends over brunch, settles heavy and horrible over her like the dark storm clouds outside. She knew that Christen had been spending more and more time with Casey recently, but she didn’t need the gut-punch of a reminder. Her day has promptly gone from okay, to bad, to worse.

_This girl has hundreds of her own friends! She has her whole ballet crew! She has millions of Instagram followers! Why can’t she just leave MY friends alone?_

Tobin checks the time on her phone before tossing it to the side. It’s past 11 AM. _Fuck it, if it’s late enough for them to have mimosas, it’s late enough for me to have a beer._

She drinks a first beer in bed while watching Sportscenter clips on her phone.

And when she sees on Instagram that Casey and Moe have been tagged in a gag-worthy, impeccably beautiful brunch tablescape posted by Christen Press (caption: _Love supporting Chicago small businesses while exploring new brunch spots with new friends!_ ), she drinks a second.

It all catches up with her at practice, of course, where she’s miserable and surly and sluggish. But hey, she’s all those things on a daily basis anyway, so it’s not like anyone can really tell the difference. It’s almost a blessing, really, when she goes down hard on a late tackle that leaves her with a bloody gash on her shin. She gets to hobble off the field, away from her teammates’ furtively judgmental stares, to hang out with her favorite team medic, Shannon, who’s been patching her up for years now.

“Don’t worry, Tobin, it’s worse than it looks,” Shannon announces as she sponges off all the blood. “I’m just going to use this antiseptic—hold on, it might sting a little—”

It stings a whole lot, and Tobin lets out a long, pained hiss and clings to Shannon’s arm.

“Oh, you poor baby,” Shannon teases, gently placing a huge white band aid over the wound. “You’re all set. Maybe take it easy for the rest of the day.”

“Perfect,” Tobin breathes out, leaning back on the examination bed. “Maybe I’ll just take a little nap right here…”

“Or…” Shannon says firmly, giving Tobin a little kick on her good leg, “You head on out there and watch the rest of practice like a good captain.”

Tobin opens her eyes and glares. “You know I’m not captain anymore, Shannon.”

“Not with that attitude, you aren’t.” Shannon’s known Tobin since her rookie days, when the girl was bright-eyed and eager and sweet. It looks like she’s about to continue her pep talk, but she looks down at the dead eyes and drooping figure before her, and pauses, then changes tack. “Just get back out there, okay? It’ll win you some easy brownie points with Rory. You can take a hot water bottle and blanket with you. And some extra bandages.”

Tobin makes it to the door before she remembers her manners. “Thanks, Shannon.”

“You know we all love you, Tobin,” Shannon responds. But Tobin can’t maintain eye contact with the worry in Shannon’s eyes, so she flees.

Unfortunately, it’s not like she can flee very far. She bundles up in a blanket on the sidelines, reporting to Rory that Shannon told her to stop practicing. (It was a bit of a stretch, from “maybe take it easy,” but Tobin felt like she had earned the right to not move for the rest of the day.)

For forty-five minutes she watches the girls scrimmage, and the only thing she can think, in a kind of dull daze, is that they look pretty damn good out there without her. Without her messing things up, slowing things down.

Moe, Casey, and Alyssa come crowding around her after practice to check on the leg. “It’s fine,” Tobin insists, “Shannon said it was just a scratch. How was brunch?”

“It was great—!” Casey starts to say.

Moe cuts in. “It was fine, I guess. Want to hang out tonight?” An unsuccessful lie to avoid hurting Tobin’s feelings. It’s too late; Tobin’s already seen the Instagram stories from brunch—all of them laughing together, sharing each other’s food.

“Not sure I should really be out partying with this leg.”

“Why don’t we come over to your place?” Alyssa suggests. “We used to hang out there all the time.”

Tobin had almost forgotten that her apartment used to be the go-to spot for the girls to gather, before she’d become the current version of herself. It’s large and close to the stadium and has that huge, comfy sofa. “I don’t know…” she hedges. “It’s a mess. I don’t have any food or anything.”

“Well, why don’t we give you a couple hours’ head start to clean, then. And we don’t really care about the food, do we, girls?” Alyssa says. Her voice was firm and decisive. “See you soon!”

Tobin groans as her friends walk off. This is, without a doubt, an attempt by Alyssa to pull Tobin out of her funk. Force her to clean her apartment a little, have a semblance of a social life.

 _Well, sucks for you, Alyssa, because I’m not going to clean, and I’m not going to have food, and I’m not going to pull myself together,_ Tobin snaps internally, even though she knows how petty and stupid she’s being.

* * *

Somehow, though, she finds herself at the grocery store on her way home.

She scans the aisles on auto-pilot, picking up Casey’s favorite banana chips and tea, the yogurt Alyssa likes. She detours to the produce aisle to pick up avocados, tomatoes, and onions, to make her guacamole recipe, the one that Moe is obsessed with. Tobin used to keep these things in constant rotation in her kitchen, ready for the girls to swing by on a moment’s notice. The familiar, bright logo on the banana chip bag makes her feel weirdly hollow. She hasn’t seen it in so many months.

 _I’ll just grab some groceries for myself, too, while I’m here. And maybe Febreze or something_ , she thinks, shuddering to think of her friends walking into an apartment that reeks of sex and beer. It might not. It probably doesn’t. But just in case.

Tobin wanders over into the next aisle and stops short.

There’s a little Black girl, about six years old, in a tutu and soft pink ballet shoes, twirling dreamily around in the aisle, her head tilted back to the sky. Tobin stops and watches in amusement as she sways between the pasta boxes on one side of her and canned soup on the other, pointing her toes and spinning in circles. _I still hate ballet dancers_ , she tells herself, _but even I gotta admit, this is cute_.

She’s turning away to grab a box of penne when she hears a crash and a shout.

“Watch where you’re going, girl!”

Tobin whirls around to see that the little girl has tripped over a basket left in middle of the aisle. Other shoppers turn to stare, too. The contents of the basket have tipped out onto the tiles, and cans are rolling around everywhere. An angry woman, hands on her hips, is towering over the girl.

“Look what you’ve done!” The woman yells. The girl sits up, dazed, her lip trembling.

“This is a grocery store, not a playground—where’s your mother? You heard me! _Where is your mother!?_ ”

_Enough of this._

“Whoa, whoa, okay.” Tobin marches over, fueled by indignation and adrenaline. “Ma’am, are you hurt?”

The woman turns around, startled. “No, of course I’m not hurt—”

 _Didn’t fucking think so, so please shut up_. Breezing past the woman, Tobin crouches down so she’s eye-level with the little girl. “How about you, baby girl, are you okay?” She can see a little blood on her stockings, probably from scraping up against the side of the metal basket. “Looks like you’re a little scratched up. Does it hurt?”

“She needs to watch where she’s going—” the woman repeats, feebly, the wind taken a little out of her sails.

“Accidents happen,” Tobin says firmly. Shoppers have already gathered around, helping to right the basket and shove its contents back in. “No harm, no foul, okay? And next time, maybe don’t leave your basket in the middle of the shopping aisle; it’s a bit of a safety hazard. People could get hurt.”

The woman’s round mouth opens and closes, like a gasping fish. But under the judgmental gazes of the shoppers around her, she wilts. “Her mother should be watching her,” she says snappishly, before storming off down the aisle. “People these days…”

Tobin rolls her eyes in the direction of the receding woman. Before the woman’s even out of sight, she’s already dismissed her from her mind. “Where are your parents?” she asks the girl.

“I’m not sure.” The girl looks to the left and to the right. “I think I went farther than I thought…”

“That’s okay, we’ll find them,” Tobin says soothingly. Next order of business: the scratch is small, but the stockings are torn pretty badly, and there’s a little blood. “This doesn’t look too bad, does it? Does it hurt?”

The girl is looking up at Tobin with her huge black eyes. “A little,” she says, sadly. “I think I need a Band-Aid.”

“Well…” Tobin rummages in her duffel bag. “Good thing I have one!” She yanks out one of the enormous white patch bandages she got for her scrape-up earlier. It could probably wrap twice around the girl’s calf.

“Hm, I’m not sure…” she fakes concern, scratching her head and squinting at the bandage. “Do you think this is big enough?”

The girl is laughing now, head thrown back. “It’s too big, probably!”

Tobin’s laughing too. This girl is too fucking cute. _Why can’t all interactions be as easy as they are with kids?_ Tobin wonders

“Well, I think you’re exactly right. It’s probably a little too big,” Tobin says, and the girl grins bashfully, pleased to have an adult agreeing with her. “But better too big than too small, am I right?”

Tobin surveys the stockings. Frankly, they’re torn so badly they don’t look salvageable. So she peels the sticky backing off of the bandage and gently wraps it around the injury, stocking and all. The way it overlaps on the back of the girl’s skinny calf makes the girl laugh, which makes Tobin laugh.

Her cheeks almost feel funny—it’s strange, using those laughing muscles again.

“Are you a doctor?” the girl asks, staring at the medical supplies bulging out of Tobin’s bag.

“Nope, I’m a soccer player!” Tobin says cheerfully. “And soccer players get hurt sometimes, so sometimes I have a lot of extra Band-Aids with me, just in case. It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Tobin.”

“I’m Faith!” The girl jumps to her feet, just as a tall man in a button-down and slacks comes dashing frantically around the corner of the aisle.

“Faith!” he calls, jogging up to them, eyes growing wide when he sees the huge bandage on his daughter’s leg. “Oh, my god, what happened—”

“It’s just a tiny cut,” Tobin reassures him, scrambling to her feet. “This was just the only bandage I had on me.”

Relief shows on the man’s face. “Thank you, thank you so much. Okay, Faith, what did you do?”

The way the girl squirms and hides her face from her dad is unbearably cute. This is clearly not the first time she’s gotten in trouble for the same thing. “I…was dancing.”

“And let me guess, you tripped and fell over something,” her dad finished, clasping her hand in his own. “Well, you’re very lucky this young lady was here to help you. Is there anything you want to say to her?”

“Thanks for helping me!” Faith says shyly. Overcome with embarrassment, she scampers down the aisle again.

“Stay where I can see you this time!” her dad calls after her. Then he turns towards Tobin. “Seriously, thanks so much, ma’am. I was just looking at the vegetables and suddenly she was gone…”

“Oh, I’m not…I’m not a ma’am,” Tobin corrects him hastily. “I’m just Tobin.”

“Well, thank you, Just Tobin. I’m Nathan.” The man puts his hand out for a shake. _He’s young_ , Tobin realizes. Not much older than Tobin herself, probably.

“Your daughter’s super cute. She’s into ballet?” Tobin asks. For some reason, the next question on the tip of her tongue is, _does she know who Christen Press is?_ But she restrains herself. Why would she ask something like that?

“Oh, she’s obsessed. Lives and breathes it, as you can probably tell,” Nathan chuckles.

“Are you just getting back from a dance lesson or something?”

Tobin thinks her question is pretty innocuous—after all, Faith is in full costume—but the way Nathan’s face falls, she realizes maybe it’s not a safe subject after all. “No, we’re not coming from a lesson, she just wears the tutu all the time.” He pauses, sighs, continues in a low voice. “I had to cancel her lessons a couple months back. Just can’t quite make ends meet enough to afford them right now. I think she thinks that if she gets all dressed up, it’ll change my mind. Breaks my heart, you know?”

“Oh, man. That’s rough…I’m sorry.” As she so often does, Tobin finds herself frustrated that she can never find the right words to say in a situation. With kids, she’s totally fine. But as soon as there’s another adult in the room, it’s like she just can’t translate the rush of thoughts and emotions in her mind into full sentences.

 _If I were Christen Press, I’d be able to say the right thing right now_.

Luckily, she’s saved from answering when Faith barrels back into the conversation, holding a box of Lucky Charms. “Daddy, Daddy, can we get this?”

“No, baby, if it’s not on sale, I don’t think so. Go on and put this back on the shelf, okay?” Nathan gives her a little pat on the back to send her off. “Tobin? Nice to meet you. Thanks again for helping Faith out.”

“Yeah, of course, no worries,” Tobin says. She turns distractedly back to face a wall of groceries, but her eyes skim, unseeing, over the display. There’s something right at the edge of her mind. Something she should do.

And then it clicks.

“Nathan!” she calls. Uncaring that everyone around turns to look, and forgetting her basket of groceries on the ground, she dodges through the aisle in case. Nathan turns around, surprised.

“Wait,” Tobin says, skidding to a stop in front of him. “Here—I should’ve thought of this earlier, but—” She rummages in her duffel bag as she talks, and finally finds what she’s looking for. It’s a Nike youth program flyer. She shoves it into Nathan’s surprised hand. “There’s this program. Nike’s doing this thing with kids who live in Chicago. It’s like, a sports thing? With funding.”

Nathan’s looking at the flyer, hopeful, but confused. His gaze skims over the photo of Tobin holding a soccer ball, then down to the website address. “A sports thing? Unfortunately, usually they don’t include dance in programs like this—it’s a damn shame, really.”

“Yeah, a damn shame,” Tobin echoes, feeling red-hot guilt in her stomach. _If it were up to people like me, I guess they still wouldn’t._ “But actually, this program does. If you just take this website address down here—” she’s found a pen in her bag, and she takes the paper back. She scribbles out her own name in the URL, _Tobin-Heath_ , and carefully writes in above it, _Christen-Press_. “If you put in this URL with this name, instead of mine, it should bring you to an application page that’s for ballet dancers. The application is open until this Saturday.” Thank god she was looking at the website just this morning, so the deadlines are fresh on her mind.

Nathan’s eyes go wide as he takes the paper back. “Oh, boy. Christen Press is involved in this? Faith is obsessed—I mean, she’s her hero. Posters in her bedroom and everything. Not too many famous Black ballerinas out there, you know?”

“Yeah,” Tobin forces out. “Anyway, I think you should give it a shot. Just a thought.”

“Thanks, Tobin.” Nathan looks a little dazed as he pockets the flyer. “I appreciate this a lot.”

“Don’t mention it,” Tobin says with a little wave, already backing away. But then she catches herself, turns back around. “But actually—if you don’t mind, could you not mention I was involved? Not sure why it would but if it ever comes up?”

Nathan looks a little confused, but he nods. “Sure thing, Tobin. If it does come up, I won’t mention you.”

* * *

There’s a bit more of a spring in her step by the time Tobin gets back to her apartment. There might be a good chance Faith gets into the Nike program—she seems like the perfect candidate, and she was super cute and sweet. Though she’s got questionable taste in role models.

Tobin unloads the food and lights a candle she just bought at the grocery store, “Fresh Linen and Sand.” _Not sure what sand is supposed to smell like, but whatever._ (She doesn’t _think_ the apartment smells like sex and beer, after giving it a sniff, but…just in case.)

She sits and glances wearily around her apartment. It’s pretty clean, right?

Well, it’s not awful.

Well…it’s not the worst it’s _ever_ been.

 _But it’s close_.

After a few more seconds of internal struggle, Tobin drags herself off the couch and straightens up just a little. She transfers a sinkful of dirty dishes into the dishwasher and turns it on. She kicks a pile of dirty clothes down the hallway into her disaster zone of a bedroom and slams the door shut behind it. Then— _okay, okay, fine_ —she opens the door again, actually throws the dirty clothes into the hamper. She makes her bed and straightens up her dresser tops. She makes halfhearted passes in the kitchen and bathroom with a handful of Lysol wipes. She even vacuums for a few minutes. _Good enough, right? The girls know what they’re getting into._ _Besides, when they invite themselves over, they shouldn’t expect too much._

She’s in the kitchen, mashing avocados for the guacamole, when she catches herself. She looks around the apartment, cleaner than it’s been in a long, long time. A candle is burning on the coffee table; the fridge is full of groceries. She looks at herself, wearing the old canvas apron she used to love, making real food for the first time in weeks.

“Okay, fine, Alyssa, you win,” she mutters aloud into the silence, grudgingly half-impressed.

As she moves on from the avocados to the tomatoes, she glances at the stove clock. It’s been about two hours, right? Where are the girls? Come to think of it, where’s her phone? She’s just wiping her hands down on her apron and looking around when there’s a knock on the door.

She lets Alyssa and Moe in, both looking more anxious than they should.

“Calm down, it’s pretty clean, see?” she starts to say, but Moe interrupts, speaking in a rapid, low voice.

“Tobin, where’s your phone? We’ve been texting you!”

“It’s…I don’t know, I never know. Why?”

“We were trying to warn you that—”

 _Wait, hold up_. Alyssa and Moe are already in the apartment, but there are still voices coming down the hallway, closer and closer. Voices— _plural_. Tobin looks at Moe and Alyssa’s nervous faces, and _oh, of course, of FUCKING course, Casey invited Christen, didn’t she?_

“In her defense,” Alyssa whispers, sneaking a glance over her shoulder to make sure they haven’t caught up yet, “Christen tried to beg out, she really did—you haven’t been very subtle about not liking her—but Casey was really insistent.”

 _Shit. Shit, shit, shit._ _Christen Press is going to be hanging out in my apartment?_ “It doesn’t smell…weird… in here, does it?!”

“What?” Moe asks, crinkling her nose, as Alyssa says, “No, why would it?”

And then Casey is at the door, all smiles and hugs, and a step behind her is Christen, hesitation written all over her face.

“Tobes, I hope you don’t mind I brought Christen!” Casey says cheerfully. “Christen and I had already made plans to hang out tonight, which I totally forgot about, like an idiot, of course. I felt so bad about cancelling, but then I realized, you guys already know each other—it’s okay that she’s here, right?”

“Yeah, it’s totally fine,” Tobin forces out. She wants to feel anger, but actually, the only emotion she can muster up is relief— _thank god I cleaned up_. _Thank god the apartment does not, apparently, smell like sex and beer_.

“See?” Casey turns back towards Christen, who’s still leaning against the open doorframe, half in the hallway. “I told you, it’s fine! Tobin is literally the nicest, most chill human in the whole world. One time, Moe showed up here with five drunk friends in tow, at 10:30 PM, and Tobin let them all stay.”

“I got the date of her party wrong!” Moe defended herself.

“I remember that. You let them play Mariokart and made them nachos for hours, didn’t you, Tobin?” Alyssa recalled.

Tobin raised her eyebrows at Alyssa, hoping her expression conveyed, _Please stop telling embarrassing stories about me._

“Well…thanks,” Christen says, uncertain. The other girls scatter through the apartment with familiar ease, but she’s still standing by the door. She’s wearing skin-tight, high-waisted jeans and a mock-neck cashmere sweater, and her hair is gleaming in silky-soft waves around her shoulders. Tobin finds herself wondering, inexplicably, if Christen’s got $140 foundation on today.

Tobin’s also suddenly, painfully aware that in comparison, she’s wearing a tomato-stained apron over an old gray muscle tank and sweatpants.

“Tobin!” Moe shouts from the kitchen. “You’re making my favorite guacamole?!”

Relieved at the interruption, Tobin wordlessly gestures for Christen to follow her, and they join the others. Alyssa’s already rummaging in the fridge for her yogurt.

“It’s not a big deal, it’s not like it’s hard to make,” Tobin says, as if it’s not the most complicated thing she’s made in weeks.

Casey’s rummaging too. “Oh, my god, Tobin, you picked up the banana chips that I like?! Christen, these are the ones I was telling you about the other day! Tobin, I can’t believe you remembered!” Casey exclaims, literally picking up and hugging the chips, and then hugging Tobin. “And—oh my god, my favorite tea, too!”

“There’s hot water in the kettle already,” Tobin mumbles, embarrassed, as she turns back to her tomato-chopping. “And the honey’s in the usual cabinet. Oh, and there’s wine on the rack.”

“You are the best. Seriously, Tobin Heath, you are an angel.” Casey smacks an affectionate kiss on the side of Tobin’s head as she heads towards the cabinet. Tobin elbows her off good-naturedly.

In all the hubbub, Tobin sneaks a glance at Christen out of the corner of her eye. The girl is leaning against the refrigerator, eyes flickering between Tobin and the other girls, taking it all in. The expression on her face is inscrutable.

For some reason, her presence in Tobin’s kitchen feels outsized and intimidating, putting Tobin on edge. _It’s probably because I spent too damn long on her Instagram the other night. Now it feels like there’s a celebrity in my apartment, judging me_.

She clears her throat. “Can I get you anything, Christen?”

Christen pauses, as if it’s a trick question. “Do you have sparkling water?”

“No, I just have normal water. Water for plebes.” (Once again, Tobin can feel herself being an asshole like it’s an out-of-body experience.)

“That’s fine. I suppose I can have plebe water once in a while without dying.” (And once again, Christen seems entirely unfazed.)

The night ends up being not as bad as Tobin had dreaded, especially after she gets a couple beers in her. Christen’s quieter than Tobin expects for a social media starlet. She sits cross-legged on the carpet near Alyssa, and they let Moe and Casey carry on the conversation, which gets increasingly raucous as the girls get more drinks in them. If Tobin turns, strategically, so that Christen isn’t in her line of sight, she can almost pretend she doesn’t exist.

In fact, it feels _almost_ good, almost like the old days, when Alyssa, Moe, and Casey used to spend all day here, even sleep over.

But it’s still only _almost_ good, because it can’t be like the old days. Not anymore. Tobin feels like an entirely different human being now. And also, Christen Press is here, an outsider, an intruder.

Originally, Tobin plans to kick them all out after an hour. But then the two-hour mark passes, and then the three. Around the three-and-a-half hour mark, Moe drunkenly demands more guacamole, and Tobin rolls her eyes, but she’s already on her feet. She leaves the girls loudly reminiscing about some national team camp drama or other.

She enters the kitchen, sees Christen, jumps. Christen turns and flinches too.

“I’m just…uh…Moe wants more guac, so I’m just going to make some,” Tobin says, immediately hating herself for it. _This is your kitchen! Why do you feel the need to explain yourself to her?_

“Oh. Sure.” Is it just Tobin, or does Christen sound a little antsy, too? “I wasn’t like, snooping around or anything. Just looking at these photos.”

Tobin nods, uncomfortable, as she reassembles her ingredients and gets to work. It’s odd to have Christen observing her belongings, because it forces Tobin to look too, to consider what the room says about her. There are so many things in her apartment that have been up for so long, they’ve faded into invisibility for her—like the photo prints hung in neat white frames on the wall, which Tobin’s sisters helped her pick out, once upon a time.

“These are nice,” Christen says absentmindedly. She’s still looking, and not leaving, and Tobin doesn’t know what to make of it. “Where did you buy them?”

Tobin looks over her shoulder to check what Christen’s looking at. They’re large black and white photographs, off-kilter and almost abstract. “Oh, uh, those are mine.”

“Yours?”

“I took them.” The admission makes Tobin nervous, like she’s going to get called out for showing off.

“Oh.” Christen leans in for a closer look. “Wow. They’re good.”

Tobin knows, she _knows_ , she could just keep her mouth shut. But instead, she says, all sarcastic, “Don’t sound so surprised.”

Christen lets out a long sigh and pinches the bridge of her nose. Tobin imagines a substitute teacher being driven to her wits end by a class of third-grade hooligans. Tobin’s the third-grade hooligan in this situation, of course.

“I just want you to know, I really tried to get out of coming tonight, but I swear, Casey wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“She kept saying it was a great opportunity for us to get to know each other.”

“Yeah.”

“You know, if you just told Casey you hate me, she’d stop trying so hard to bring me around.”

Tobin freezes, mid onion slice. Christen’s doing that thing again, the thing where she catches Tobin totally off guard, calls Tobin out like nobody else ever does, makes her feel like she’s squirming under a microscope.

Tobin knows she’s pathetic. She wants to be mean all she wants, but she doesn’t want to get called out for it.

“I don’t _hate_ you!” Tobin protests feebly.

“Tobin…” Christen says wearily. She’s meandered over to the fridge now, and she’s looking at the photos that are plastered all over its front. She edges one photo out from under its magnet, holds it up, studies it. “I’ve tried, over and over, to bow out of hanging out with the group, but Casey is insistent. I’ve even told her that I get the sense that you don’t like me, and you know what she says?”

Tobin stays silent, refusing to look up from her chopping board.

“She says I must have it wrong, because _Tobin loves everyone, and everyone loves Tobin_. But clearly, I’m the exception.”

 _That’s not right, really_ , Tobin thinks miserably. The dichotomy, the gaping divide, isn’t between everybody and Christen. It’s really between the old Tobin and the new Tobin.

Old Tobin did truly love everybody. New Tobin…well, that’s what Christen’s been getting the brunt of.

But how can she say that out loud? She can’t. So she doesn’t.

The _snick-snick-snick_ of onions being diced is the only sound in the kitchen.

“You don’t like me, and you’re not even trying to pretend,” Christen finishes. She doesn’t sound mad—maybe just tired, resigned. “And that’s fine. But hasn’t this been painful enough for both of us? You just need to say the word, and they’ll stop hanging out with me.”

Tobin chops harder. There’s a lurking horror somewhere under those words that she can’t quite place. All she knows is that even if she wanted to, she couldn’t open her mouth to give an answer. Her teeth are gritting themselves together so hard, she can feel the ache in her temples. Her eyes feel dry and pinchy.

“You know that’s true, right?” Christen is approaching, with soft steps. Tobin tenses up. “You know that if you just tell Casey, it’d be fine. You know you don’t have to be scared they’re going to replace you with me. Choose me over you.”

And there it is.

It hits her all at once, a tsunami wave of realization, out of nowhere. She’s been hating Christen, so determinedly, so viscerally, with every fiber of her being, since that first day they met at the park. And maybe on that first day, it’d been a mutual dislike, between equals. But it’s not that anymore.

What this is really about is that, Tobin realizes, is that Christen isn’t a bad person at all. In fact, she’s good, too good. She’s superior to Tobin in every way. More put together, more mature.

More talented, more accomplished.

Funny, outgoing, stylish, cosmopolitan, charming. 

Beautiful. So fucking beautiful she almost hurts to look at, like the sun and all the stars.

And maybe if Tobin said to Casey, “Hey, I want you to choose between me and your new friend Christen,” Casey might reply, “That’s easy. I choose Christen.”

Christen, who shines like the sun and all the stars, versus Tobin, a dumpster fire of a human being. It wouldn’t be a hard choice. 

And Tobin would know that, after all she’s put her friends through, she would deserve it.

“I’m not scared of that,” Tobin lies, and her voice sounds thick and choky, and she’s mortified at herself. At some point, she doesn’t know when, she’d laid the knife down and started gripping the edge of the counter for dear life. “I’m not.”

Christen stops, about an arm’s length away from Tobin. Gently, wordlessly, she lays down the photo she’d taken from the refrigerator.

Like the other photos, Tobin has almost forgotten about its existence. It’s an old candid shot from their rookie year. Moe’s cuddling her arm around Tobin’s shoulder, and Tobin’s laughing hard, head thrown back, at something Casey is saying, and Casey’s eyes are wide and her hands are mid-gesture, dramatically raised in the air. Alyssa is looking straight into the camera like Jim on The Office, deadpan and desperate to be rescued.

 _We were so young_ , is her first thought, and then she thinks, _would they choose me anymore?_ And then, _maybe they wouldn’t_. 

She’s crying before she realizes she’s crying, just a few silent tears rolling fast down her face. When she feels them, she dashes her forearm brusquely, angrily, against her eyes.

“Onions,” she lies feebly, to nobody in particular. She doesn’t dare look in Christen’s direction. (Somewhere, in the far recesses of her mind, a dramatic announcer’s voice is informing her that she is crying in front of Christen Press, and that this is a new lowest-of-the-lows for her. Maybe tomorrow morning, she’ll wake up and feel deeply mortified by this. But right now, she’s just trying to hold her own heart together in her hands.)

“Maybe you were right, last week, when you said that you’re just a horrible person. Or maybe—and after tonight, I’m leaning this way—you were wrong,” she hears Christen say softly. “But either way, they love you. They would choose you,” she adds, as if she’s reading Tobin’s mind.

Tobin doesn’t realize Christen is gone until she hears the soft click of the shutting front door. She looks up to an empty room. 

“Tobin? Christen?” voices call from the living room. She’s not the only one who’s heard the door. She hurriedly dabs at her eyes.

“Where’d Christen go?” Moe is the first one around the corner, with the other two on her heels.

“You two were in here for a while. I thought you might be bonding!” Casey says. She looks around, as if Tobin’s hiding Christen under a cabinet or something.

“Uh, she had to go, all of sudden. Something must’ve come up.”

“So, what do you think? Do you like her?” Casey says hopefully. Moe and Alyssa, too, look like they’re waiting with cautious optimism for an answer.

_Christen, who shines like the sun and all the stars, versus Tobin, a dumpster fire of a human being._

“I think she’s fine,” she hears her own voice say. “I don’t mind you inviting her at all.”

She can’t ask them to choose. She knows how the choice would go.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, and most importantly, hope everyone is holding up okay after the mentally and emotionally traumatic events of yesterday. As an American, I'm so ashamed and demoralized, and as a woman of color, I'm terrified and angry. Anyway. I got zero work done yesterday and just slightly more than zero work done today, so even I thought I'd go ahead and post this chapter (which I've been stressing over for a while) as a lil pick-me-up for myself and for all of you!
> 
> On a lighter note, just wanted to say thank you for all the wonderfully kind comments on A Thousand and One Nights. I was really blown away by the unexpected response, so even though I definitely wrote it just as a one-shot, with no intention of expanding the universe...who knows? (I had an evil thought, while listening to Evermore, that I could do a super angsty sequel set five years in the future based on Tis the Damn Season. Maybe I'll write that for Preathfics Winter One-Shots 2021 ha ha.)
> 
> Hope you enjoy this next installment of Move Like Grey Skies! 
> 
> Much love,  
> casson

“Come on, Fina!” Tobin shouts, racing down the side of the field, playfully shoving Moe aside as the other girl tries to angle in front of her. “You got this! You got this—YES!!” She throws her arms into the air as her mentee streaks across the finish line, having successfully dribbled around her practice cones faster than any of the other girls’ mentees.

Tobin gives Fina a congratulatory high-five. Then, when she thinks nobody else on the field is looking, she scoops the eight-year-old, all sweaty and jubilant and giggling, into her arms and whirls her around in a few circles.

In that moment, she feels more at home and at peace in the stadium than she has in months.

“Tobin, I’ve been practicing around the worlds, the way you taught me last week, you wanna see?!” Fina says eagerly as soon as Tobin sets her down on the grass.

As the other players and their kids scatter to do their own things, Tobin settles cross-legged on the grass to watch, grinning as Fina chatters on.

The mentoring is going okay. Better than okay, honestly—pretty great. After the Red Stars players settled on their mentees, the kids have been coming to the tail end of Red Stars’ practice to see what it’s actually like and even play-scrimmage with the team. After the rest of the team leaves, the Nike mentors hang around for another couple hours, like they’re doing now, for more practice and bonding. The first couple practice sessions, Nike sent their PR people with cameras, but now things have settled down into a nice, private routine now, just the way Tobin likes.

And then there’s Fina. When Tobin had finally bit the bullet and dove back into the applications, she was intensely moved by Fina’s story—her father and older brother had been killed in a car crash two years ago. Her brother had been the one to teach her to play soccer, which she loved, and she still wore his hand-me-down cleats and jerseys. _I want to play soccer all the time_ , she had written in her scraggly, round handwriting, _but I also want to help Mama at home more. She comes home very late after work. She makes my food and helps me wash my hair. She says soccer is good because she smiles when I smile, but I want to smile because she smiles sometimes, too. She doesn’t smile a lot._

I mean, talk about ripping your heart out and tearing it up into little, tiny pieces.

Before their first meeting, Tobin was almost more nervous than Fina was. _What if I’m the worst mentor ever?_ She wondered, nervously cracking her knuckles till her fingers ached. _What if she hates me and asks to switch?_ But when they met, Tobin felt immediately at ease around the laidback girl. And to Tobin’s delight, she was an obsessive, determined little player totally in love with the game, just like Tobin had been at that age. Seamlessly, naturally, they just fit.

Tobin knows some of the other girls on the team, particularly the rookies, think it’s disingenuous. “Look how nice Tobin can act when her little Nike girl is here,” she’d heard one of them muttering from the other side of the locker room last week. She knew Casey, changing next to her, had heard it too, knew from the way Casey’s mouth flattened into a straight line. “Don’t, Casey, it’s not even worth it—” she’d whispered wearily, but Casey was already charging across the locker room to give the rookies a piece of her mind.

 _More team discord, all my fault, as usual_ , Tobin thought, watching the rookies shrink under Casey’s scolding.

At the end of practice, the Nike shuttle bus comes to pick up the mentees—an added perk, so parents don’t have to alter their work schedules in order for their kids to participate in the program. Fina and Tobin continue their intense conversation about the last Arsenal game until the bus driver literally slams the door shut in Tobin’s face, while Fina giggles. By the time Tobin jogs back onto the field, her friends are already congregated on the sidelines with their water bottles. Guilty for making them wait, she picks up her pace to join them.

“Tobes, how do you feel about dinner Thursday at Casey’s?” Moe asks.

Tobin hedges, picking some dirt out of her cleats, not meeting the other girls’ eyes.

Odd, isn’t it? A couple of weeks ago, she would never have guessed that the _absence_ of Christen Press at any gathering would bother her.

But Christen’s been totally MIA since the night at Tobin’s apartment. She must know, based on Casey’s constant invitations, that Tobin has still been too chicken to act on the conversation they’d had that night.

So clearly, Christen’s just taking the high road. Taking herself out of the equation.

And at every hang-out where Christen is conveniently missing, and Casey and Moe and Alyssa worry, Tobin feels guilt gnawing violently at her insides.

Even though Christen’s the one who’s gone, Tobin’s the one who suffers the weight of the truth. Christen is always doing the right thing, and Tobin is always doing the wrong thing.

And thus the truth remains that even when Tobin’s winning, by getting to be the one to hang out with their friends, she’s somehow still losing.

“Sure,” Tobin finally says, and out of the corner of her eye she sees the girls exchange sighs of relief that she hadn’t put up more of a fight.

“I’m guessing Christen can’t come, again?” Moe asks Casey, a bit of a worry line appearing on her forehead.

“No, I haven’t seen her once since that night we hung out at Tobin’s,” Casey frowns down at her phone, tapping the screen, as if a text from Christen would’ve magically materialized. “She keeps saying that Nutcracker rehearsals have picked up and she has to be rehearsing, like eight hours a day. I’ve told her that she can come hang out with us afterwards. But I guess she’s just tired and wants to head home. I’m starting to get a little worried. You guys haven’t heard from her recently, have you?”

Tobin shakes her head along with the others, though it feels like shame is engulfing her ribcage in fiery flames.

“Tobin!”

The girls turn to see Rory walking up to them. Tobin’s heart sinks. These days, whatever Rory has to say to her, it can’t be good.

“Tobin, walk with me,” Rory instructs. He eyes the rest of the girls and adds, “These little kids are cute, but the championship game is coming up. So far it’s been fine, but make sure you’re not losing focus by spending too much unnecessary time on them, got it?”

Tobin has to bite her tongue to prevent herself from retorting, already fired up in Fina’s defense. Instead, after a warning look from Alyssa, she grabs her stuff and obediently trots after Rory.

“Got a call from Nike,” he says, hands in his sweatshirt pockets, not looking at her, as they exit the field. “They said you didn’t do an interview at the kick-off event last month.”

“Well, Alyssa and Moe said I didn’t have to—”

“Apparently, Alyssa and Moe are wrong. Nike wants you in more of their publicity materials, and you’re to go downtown to film something on Thursday. They’ll email you the details.”

“Rory!” Tobin’s voice rises to a whine.

“Trust me, I’m as surprised as you are that they want you for the face of this thing. But hey, not my call, and not your call either, apparently. Be there. Your little girl will be there too.”

So three days later, Tobin finds herself trudging down the sidewalk towards Nike’s Chicago HQ. She’d seriously contemplated coming to the interview straight after practice—sweaty kit, straggly ponytail—just to prove a point. But knowing that Fina’s going to be here, she feels a strange pull to be a better example. Under her enormous puffer coat, she’s wearing a nice (well, nice for her) white sweater and black skinny jeans. Her hair is washed and blow-dried into silky waves, and she even has some mascara on.

And miracle of miracles, she’s a little early. She loiters in the lobby, waiting for Fina. The sooner she and Fina can get out of here, the sooner she can get to Casey’s for dinner. Secretly, she’s hoping that there’s enough of a gap that she can nap on Casey’s couch for a couple hours.

She’s checking her watch when she hears the door open and feels the accompanying sweep of icy Chicago air.

But when she looks up with a wide smile, ready to welcome Fina, the figure that runs shivering through the door is Christen Press.

Teeth chattering, Christen rubs her hands together for warmth as she walks forward, her eyes scanning across the lobby. Her hair is in a high bun that’s starting to come loose, and she’s wearing a silky green-gray scarf that brings out her eyes, her nose is red from the cold, and—maybe because it’s been so many weeks since Tobin’s seen her, but something about the sight is making it a little hard to breathe.

Then Christen looks her way.

“Oh!” she skids to a stop, eyes wide, when she sees Tobin standing there. “Tobin? Hi.”

“Uh, hi, Christen.” Tobin doesn’t know where to look.

“You’re here for the interview? Are we being interviewed together?” Christen asks. Tobin shrugs, scrambling for something to say. _Did I just look super creepy, standing in the middle of the lobby as if I was waiting for her? Was I staring at her in a weird way? Shit, am I still staring at her in a weird way?_

The pause is just starting to get painfully long when the door opens again.

Breathing a sigh of relief at the distraction, Tobin turns to greet Fina—

But yet again, it’s not Fina.

…it’s Faith and Nathan.

“Christen!” Faith shouts, launching herself forward into Christen’s arms.

Tobin’s first reaction is glee—Faith made it into the program! And she must be Christen’s mentee!

But it immediately fades into horror. _Shit. Faith and Nathan are here. I’m here. What if they acknowledge that they know me? Should I hide? Is it too late to hide?_

Behind Christen’s back, Nathan stares from Christen to Tobin, and gives Tobin this panicky eyebrow-raise, as if unsure of whether they should greet each other. Clearly, he’s remembering Tobin’s request not to mention her involvement in connecting Faith to the program.

Well, if he’s looking for Tobin to take the lead on this, they’re all screwed, because it feels like her brain has decided to spontaneously shut down on her.

 _No thoughts head empty_ , Tobin thinks.

Then she mentally berates herself for devolving to describing her life in memes in this moment.

Then she mentally berates herself for wasting time mentally berating herself when she should be figuring out how to get herself out of this mess.

_Snap out of it. Maybe Faith won’t quite recognize me? And then I can attempt to pass it off like we’re meeting for the first time?_

But then Faith is turning around in Christen’s arms, and looking straight at Tobin, and saying shyly, “Hi, Tobin!”

_Shitshitshitshitshitshit—_

“Wait— _what?_ ” Christen says. She blinks. She blinks again, harder. She gives her head a little shake, as if she’s trying to disperse a hallucination.

“Tobin, my leg is better!” Faith continues, casual and almost absent-minded. “Want to see?”

Christen and Tobin eyes meet and lock on each other for an endless moment. Christen looks a little like someone just dropped a sledgehammer on her head. Tobin can feel a red-hot blush creeping upwards from her neck, threatening to engulf her whole head in flames.

But Faith is putting her arms out for her, expectantly. So in one quick stride, Tobin walks forward and lifts her out of Christen’s frozen grasp. She adjusts Faith so she’s sitting more comfortably in Tobin’s arms. “Here, let’s see, show me.”

Faith reaches down and proudly pulls up the hem of her leggings. It takes her a second, which gives Tobin a moment to close her eyes and attempt to refocus. _Just pretend Christen’s not standing three feet away, staring at you. Just pretend it’s just you and Faith._ _Just focus on Faith, don’t let her think anything’s wrong_ —

“See? It’s better!”

Tobin immediately sees the tiny scar that remains from the fall. But she wrinkles her nose dramatically, furrows her brow, and squints at the leg from just inches away. “Huh? Where?!”

“Right there!” Faith points out eagerly.

“I don’t see anything! Am I blind? Are you _sure_ it’s not on the other leg? I think it must be.” Tobin moves as if to check the other leg.

Faith’s howling with laughter. “No, Tobin, no! It’s definitely this leg!”

“I see it, I see it,” Tobin finally relents. “Gee, it’s tiny! You healed so fast! Are you sure you don’t have magical healing powers?”

“I don’t!”

“You’re not a magical fairy or anything?”

“No!”

“A witch? Are you Hermione Granger?”

“No!”

“A mermaid, then?”

“Mermaids don’t even _have_ legs!” Faith shrieks, delighted.

“You’re right, you’re totally right,” Tobin slaps a hand to her forehead and shakes her head as Faith giggles. “I forgot, there’s no such thing as a ballerina mermaid, is there?”

As soon as Tobin sets Faith on the ground, she regrets it. Faith runs off back to Nathan, leaving Tobin without armor. With nothing between her and Christen. The jovial moment is gone, and the ice-cold reality of the situation comes rushing back.

Christen’s standing frozen, staring at Tobin as if it’s the first time she’s ever seen her face. “How do you know my mentee?”

Nathan’s looking towards Tobin again, the poor guy. Tobin scrambles for an explanation. “I, uh, happened to run into Nathan and Faith. In a grocery store. A couple weeks ago.”

_That could be an okay cover. It could just be a weird coincidence, right, that Faith is also Christen’s mentee?_

“Tobin helped me when I got hurt in the grocery store!” Faith pipes up.

_Okay, so far so good—_

“And she’s the one who found you for me, Christen!”

Christen’s eyes fly open wide.

_Aaand, busted._

At this inopportune moment, the door opens again, and this time, it’s finally Fina, with her mother Sarah in tow. Tobin has never had to hit the on switch on her fake smile so quickly, and she’s grateful that nobody in the room knows her well enough to tear her façade to shreds. A staff member appears in the lobby to herd them to the interview, and after a quick, chaotic flurry of introductions—through which Tobin can still feel Christen’s piercing eyes on her—the whole group is ushered along.

As they pass through a narrow hallway, Tobin finds herself beside Nathan. “Hey, great to see you again! What do I say?!” Nathan whispers, gesturing to where Christen and Faith are walking ahead of them. “She asked me a few weeks ago how I found out about the program for Faith, and I said I found the flyer in a grocery store. I didn’t realize you two knew each other!”

Tobin lets out a long sigh and gives Nathan a wry smile. “Yeah, we…uh…run in the same crowd. Don’t worry, I’ll tell her everything. It was good while it lasted, huh?”

“You know,” Nathan says thoughtfully, “I know you were probably just too modest and chill to want to take credit, but I gotta say, maybe it’s good the truth is coming out. You deserve some recognition for making the connection. Just look how happy Faith is! When she got the call that Christen Press had chosen her for a mentee, she couldn’t believe it. I don’t think I’d ever seen her so happy.”

Tobin’s insides twist as she watches Faith and Christen walking hand in hand, Faith staring adoringly up at her idol. “Yeah, maybe it is a good thing,” she lies. But Christen shoots a questioning look over her shoulder at the sight of Nathan and Tobin talking, and Tobin gulps. _Shit, I’m in for it_.

They reach a room that’s set up with couches in front of a white backdrop, with lights and microphones and wires everywhere. Fina and Faith stare around with wide eyes, inching back towards their parents in the unfamiliar environment. The Nike staffer says cheerfully, “Fina, Faith—and Nathan, Sarah—this must be so new and exciting for you! Come over here, and I’ll walk you through what we’re going to be doing today.”

Instead of following the crowd towards the couches, Christen lingers near the door, shrugging off her long puffer coat and hanging it on a hook. Tobin’s distracted for a second, surveying her from head to toe: that loose, high bun, a soft pink wrap sweater knotted loosely over a black leotard, black leggings, white legwarmers, Ugg boots. She looks a little more tired and thin than Tobin remembered. There are dark circles under her eyes, and a bit of a droop around her mouth. But she’s still jaw-droppingly beautiful.

Tobin works to keep her jaw from dropping accordingly. Her mouth feels a little dry. She doesn’t let herself think about why. 

Instead, she comes up next to Christen under the guise of hanging up her own coat, and says under her breath, “If you’re going to be mad, be mad at me. It’s not Nathan’s fault. I’m the one who asked him not to say anything.”

“Nathan told me that he found the flyer at the grocery store,” Christen says. Her tone is hard to read. _How angry is she?_ “He made it sound like it was in a stack by the checkout counter or something.”

“He did get it at the grocery store,” Tobin rambles defensively. “I mean…we were in a grocery store. When I handed the flyer to him. I was grocery shopping, and Faith was wearing a tutu, and Nathan and I got to talking, and I just…I don’t know. I don’t know what came over me. And then I told him not to say anything to anyone. So just be mad at me.”

Christen’s turning as if to say something, but they’re interrupted by a Nike rep who comes up behind them. “Tobin, Christen, hi! Thanks for making the time today. We were supposed to have a basketball player from the Chicago Sky here today, but unfortunately, their flight back from an away game was delayed, so she wasn’t able to make it with her mentee. Looks like it’ll just be the two of you and your mentees. Do the two of you know each other?”

Tobin and Christen stare awkwardly at each other.

“We’ve been acquainted,” Christen says, as Tobin stutters out, far less eloquently, “Uh, sorta.”

 _I’ve only insulted her multiple times and then cried in front of her in my kitchen, no big deal_.

“Okay, well,” The Nike rep muses. “Try to really play up the friendship in front of the camera, if at all possible. The girls are going to pick up on your mood, so you really need to set the tone. Try to be relaxed and funny with each other.”

_Jesus, this is going to be a nightmare, isn’t it? I already suck at interviews even when I’m trying to be myself. Now I have to try not to suck at an interview while pretending like Christen Press and I are best friends? While she’s mad at me? I hate this. I hate this so much._

Fina and Faith are already seated on the sofas, bouncing up and down and laughing with each other.

 _At least our mentees are getting along_.

Tobin’s squaring her shoulders, trying to internally pump herself up to join them, when Fina’s mother Sarah intercepts her. Tobin lights up, gives her a quick hug. She’d met the young woman a few times early on. Sarah is fiery and jolly and incredibly hard-working, and Tobin can see where Fina had picked up a lot of her characteristics. “It’s so great you’re here! I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I took the afternoon off of work!” Sarah says. “It took some wrangling, but the diner manager finally let it happen. It’s not every day your baby girl gets to appear in a Nike interview.” She smiles fondly over at where Fina is gabbing with Faith on the sofa. “How incredibly special is this, right?”

“Right. So special,” Tobin echoes. She immediately feels a low-simmering shame for complaining about the interview. _Why am I such a shitty person?_ She wonders as she takes her seat next to Fina, pensively observing Fina and Faith’s excited little faces. _Just suck it up. Do it for the girls._

As soon as the cameras are rolling, she puts on a smile and turns on the charm.

She’s not the only one in interview mode, and she’s certainly not the best at it.

Immediately, Tobin is reminded her of her first impression of Christen Press the day they met. The way she sits ramrod straight, crosses her ankles, angles her chin, smiles at the camera—it’s all so natural. Even in her practice clothes, without makeup on, she’s regal. Electrifying.

Watching her, Tobin self-consciously scoots herself up into a slightly less slouched position.

With Christen in the driver’s seat of this interview, it goes so much more smoothly than Tobin expected. She’s so good at media. She’s got a way of pivoting the conversation to include everyone, opening up space for others to do and say interesting things—but gently, inconspicuously, as if she’s barely there.

 _Add “potential talk show host” to the list of Christen Press’s skills_ , Tobin thinks.

She catches her gaze drifting down the angle of Christen’s jaw, lingering on the soft skin on the side of her neck, under her ear, until she remembers— _Shit, there’s cameras._

Tobin feels frozen and fake with a smile on her face for the first few minutes, but then she finds herself relaxing and joking too. It’s hard not to smile, for real, when Faith gets up and demonstrates the foot positions in ballet, her little face all serious as she explains her moves. Then Fina wants to try, and they get a long, hilarious segment of Faith teaching her, of Fina wobbling and falling down trying to hold fifth position and laughing at herself.

“Hey, Faith, don’t try to steal my mentee!” Tobin teases. “Fina, hey, you’re here for soccer, remember?”

“Why don’t you guys show us some moves?” Christen laughs, and it’s the perfect pivot. They bring out some soccer balls. Fina shows off her around-the-worlds, chattering about how Tobin taught them to her last week. With a ball by her side, Tobin feels more at home, and she executes a perfect rainbow. Then Fina has to try one too, of course, and sends the ball ricocheting off-screen as Christen and Faith dramatically duck for cover. There’s a crash as it knocks over a floor lamp.

“We’re working on that one next week,” Tobin deadpans to the cameraman.

When they finally settle in for the actual question-and-answer portion, Tobin finds herself less nervous than she would’ve been. She usually feels tongue-tied and foggy-brained during interviews, and then in the shower that night, she’ll suddenly think of perfect answers to all the questions after it’s too late to give them. But it helps today that the girls are totally into it now, and they chatter on and on, barely giving Tobin and Christen time to get a word in edgewise. 

“Fina, what’s it been like having Tobin as a mentor?”

“It’s been amazing!” Fina says, shooting Tobin a huge smile. “I was a little nervous at first, because she’s, like…THE _Tobin Heath_. But she’s so nice, and funny, and she explains things so well. And she’s so encouraging. Whenever I look over at her during practice, when I think I make mistakes, she’s always smiling at me.”

“Am I really?” Tobin wonders, before she realizes that she said it out loud. She feels herself blushing under the weight of all Fina’s praise.

“Yeah!” Fina exclaims. “You’re always smiling. You’re always giving me high fives when I try something new, even if I don’t do it right. It makes me want to try again even when I mess up.”

From the other end of the set, Christen is studying Tobin, attentive and contemplative.

The questions and answers pivot towards the dancers for a while, to Tobin’s relief. They ask Faith a bunch of questions about what she likes about dancing, and then they talk to Christen about the program. There are dance-specific terms that Tobin’s not quite following, and she’s just starting to daydream a little, planning what she wants to teach Fina during their next practice session, when one of Christen’s answers catches her attention.

“Another unspoken benefit of this program is that even the mentors have a lot of learning to do,” Christen is saying thoughtfully. “I know that I have. For example, I’ve gotten to be friends with the Red Stars players—”

She nods towards Tobin’s end of the couch with a smile that’s wide and beautiful, and _god_ , it’s such a smile, and Tobin has seen it before directed at others, but never directed at her. It hits her full force, like a tractor beam. It takes her breath away.

She finds herself wishing—achingly, bewilderingly— _if only it were genuine, and not just for the cameras._

“—and they’ve invited me to their games,” Christen is continuing, “And in the process, I’ve learned so much about soccer. It’s such a spectacular sport. Of course, everyone knows how physically grueling it is, but I truly didn’t recognize, at the outset of this whole adventure, just how much of an art form it is.”

“Really? An art form, like ballet is?” the interviewer injects.

And then Christen says, “Yes, absolutely. I mean, to recognize the inherent beauty, and artistry, in soccer, all you have to do is watch Tobin play.”

Tobin sits, stunned and gratified. Her body feels like it’s on fire. _Holy shit_. _Did she just say what I thought she said?_

“So you’re saying Tobin’s an artist on the field,” the interviewer says, all casual, as if Tobin’s world hasn’t just shifted on its axis. “And Tobin? What do you say to that?”

_Was it just for the cameras? Or did she really mean it?_

“I…uh…” Tobin stutters. “Yeah, I definitely think of soccer as an art form. And when I’m out there on the field, I’m not just there to win, I’m also there to entertain. And to use my imagination. It’s never just about the scoreline, for me, it’s about all the beautiful little skills in between.” And suddenly, out of nowhere, her mouth is just rambling by itself, and she adds, “And you know, it goes both ways. Christen’s a ballet dancer, but that means that she’s an athlete. I mean, I’ve never seen her dance, but I’m sure it requires an insane amount of athleticism. When she came to visit us at our game, all the Red Stars players were impressed with how fast and far she could kick a ball. She was making shots from midfield on her first try.” Tobin laughs, “And I mean, she can literally run circles around me—”

Then—all of a sudden, in a red-hot flush—Tobin remembers that she’s never told anyone about the day Christen left her in the dust on that lakeside run. Not even Christen. _Especially_ not Christen.

_Shit._

She clams up immediately, and the interviewer is exclaiming something about how cool it is that they’re leaning from each other, but it’s too late.

Over the girls’ heads, their eyes meet, and there’s something new in Christen’s gaze—something curious and puzzled, heated and sparkling.

Tobin tears her eyes away, utterly mortified.

She manages to hang onto her facade for the rest of the interview, laughing at Fina’s antics and providing hopefully coherent answers to any question that’s specifically directed towards her. But as soon as the cameras cut, the last bits of small talk are finished, and the girls are bundled up and gone with their parents, Tobin sprints to the bathroom. She rests her elbows on the shining porcelain sink and groans out loud.

_“She can literally run circles around me?” Why the FUCK would I say something like that? Does that make it super obvious that I’ve seen her run before? Like a stalker? Holy shit, Tobin, you idiot._

She splashes some icy-cold water on her face and on the back of her neck, remembering the words Christen had said. The way she’d glanced at Tobin, all confused and inquisitive, and—

Tobin shakes her head until her neck aches, as if her brain is an old-fashioned Etch-a-Sketch she could just shake clean. It’s fine. It’s all fine. The statement about running, that could just be passed off as a general observation of Christen being in shape. The things Christen said about Tobin being an artist, that could’ve just been for the interview. She might not have meant it. Anyway, she’s probably still mad about the Faith thing, and was just playing up the friendliness for the cameras. It’s fine. They can just go back to never seeing each other again, and Tobin can forget this mortifying ordeal ever happened.

She hangs around in the bathroom for a few more minutes to make sure everyone’s gone, before heading back to the room for her coat. She opens the door into a now-dark room. It’s empty, and all the camera equipment and lighting has been removed. She turns towards the hook where she hung her coat earlier.

It’s gone.

“Ahem.”

Tobin whirls around to see Christen, leaning against the wall, Tobin’s coat in her arms.

“Jeez!” Tobin leaps backwards. “Fucking hell, you scared me.”

“Sorry,” Christen says, but Tobin can see the smirk on her face even in the dark room, and she doesn’t look very apologetic.

“Uh, that’s my coat you’ve got there.”

“Yeah, I wanted some insurance to make sure you didn’t try to sneak off.”

“Why would I try to sneak off?!” Tobin protests, offended, as if she wasn’t just caught trying to sneak off.

Christen hedges for a second, biting down on her lip, before saying, “Before you left, I just wanted to make sure I had a chance to say thank you.”

Tobin blinks. “What for?”

Instead of answering, Christen just tips her head to one side. “I’ve been wondering—why did you tell Nathan not to mention that you were the one who told them about applying?”

Tobin doesn’t have an answer.

“Did you think that I’d be biased against her if I knew that you were the connection?” Christen prompts. “Because you know, I wouldn’t have been. Even if I’d known.”

“No, that’s not it!” Tobin protests vehemently.

Honestly, she can’t even put her finger on why. Why it had felt so overwhelmingly important for her to stay out of the picture.

Nathan had it wrong earlier, though. It certainly wasn’t modesty that had prevented her from sharing the truth.

Christen had it wrong, too. It hadn’t for a second crossed her mind that Christen would torpedo someone’s application just because Tobin knew the applicant.

It’s simpler than that, she realizes: she isn’t a good person, so it feels fake—deceptive, almost—to try to claim credit for doing good deeds. Connecting Faith to Christen was an act so out of the realm of normalcy for her that it would feel disingenuous to even claim it as her own.

So she just shrugs half-heartedly in response to Christen’s searching gaze, and reaches out and grabs her coat back. “Honestly, I don’t know. Just felt…weird, I guess.”

Christen’s face falls, almost imperceptibly. She pulls back a little, and her voice takes on a more formal tone again. “I suppose maybe you thought that if I knew, I’d try to reach out and contact you about it or something. Don’t worry. I’ll keep staying out of your way, out of everyone’s way. But I wanted to say thank you, just once. Faith is a dream—she’s incredible. I really appreciate you setting this up.”

 _I didn’t set it up_ , Tobin wants to protest. _You’re the one who chose her application out of a pool of dozens._

She doesn’t quite get up the courage to form the words, though, before Christen is giving her one last sad smile on her way out the door.

Tobin stands in the dark room for a long moment, clutching her coat to her chest.

The distant ring of a phone jolts her out of her stupor, and she emerges into the hallway. Christen has trudged halfway down the hallway already, and it’s her phone that’s ringing. Tobin watches from a distance, unbeknownst to Christen, as she reaches into her pocket to answer it.

“Casey? Hi.”

Tobin freezes.

“Yeah, I got your text. Texts. Sorry I didn’t respond. Dinner tonight? I…” Christen’s voice falters. “No, I can’t go. Yeah, I know, I know, I’m so sorry. It’s just…I’m busy, and…” She slows to a stop in the middle of the hallway, and Tobin watches as she closes her eyes, tips her chin up towards the ceiling, places one balled-up fist in the middle of her forehead as if she’s desperately trying to conjure up an answer.

“I know, I’m sorry, and I miss you all too. Tell Moe and Alyssa I said hi. I know I said last time that I’d try to make it this time, but, uh, something came up…and—no! Casey, there’s nothing wrong, I swear, it’s not anything you’ve done, I’m just so busy…”

Is Tobin just imagining it, or is Christen’s voice wobbling a little?

Her legs are moving before she knows it. She takes one slow step towards Christen, and then another, and then she’s suddenly sprinting.

“I really will try to make it next time, I promise—” Christen is saying as Tobin gets closer and closer. Christen turns, confused, at the sound of pounding footsteps, just as Tobin gets to her and whisks the phone out of her hand.

“Case? It’s me.” Tobin gasps into the phone, trying to catch her breath.

“ _Tobin?_ ” Casey exclaims.

“TOBIN?!” Several more voices in the background shriek.

_Oh, Jesus Christ, what have I gotten myself into?_

“Yeah, listen up,” she continues, before she can chicken out, “Christen will be coming to dinner. We’ll be there. See you in a bit. Bye.”

Tobin tosses the phone back to Christen, who catches it with her mouth slightly agape.

“What?” Tobin mumbles defensively, scratching her elbow with her other hand as she looks down at the ground. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” Christen says. There’s a grin creeping up the edges of her mouth. “Thanks.”

Tobin bites her lip, glances up at Christen’s face through her eyelashes. “I don’t know what you’re thanking me for.”

Christen just smiles—this absolutely breath-taking beam. And this time, Tobin knows that it’s for her. _Really_ for her. Christen’s eyes crinkle and her whole face lights up, and Tobin feels her whole body lighting up with it.

“I do need to go home first, actually,” Christen says.

“Oh, yeah, your dog, right?” Tobin says absentmindedly, overlapping with Christen right as she’s finishing her sentence, “I really need to get another hour or so of working out in.”

“Wait—how did you know I have a dog?” Christen’s eyebrow quirks. She waits.

Tobin scrambles for an answer. A non-stalker answer. An answer that doesn’t imply that she follows Christen on lakeside runs. “Uh, Instagram?” _Every dog owner posts a lot of dog pictures. Right?_

“Oh.” Christen seems to accept the lie at face value. She looks back down, but then lets out a confused little chuckle.

“What?” Tobin asks defensively.

Christen looks up, brow a little wrinkled, the edge of her mouth curling up into a smirk. “I just don’t remember the last time I posted anything about Morena on Instagram. You must’ve scrolled way back.”

 _Shit, shit, shit_. How had the lie become even more embarrassing than the truth?

Mercifully, Christen takes pity on her and changes the subject. “What are you going to do between now and dinner?”

“Uh, I’m not sure.” Tobin _should_ say that her plan was going to be napping on Casey’s couch, but for some reason, she hesitates. “Casey’s place is close to here, so it’s not really worth heading home. I might try to find somewhere to grab a coffee…or something.”

“Yeah. I live pretty close to here as well.”

Christen pauses.

“You could, uh, come back to my apartment with me? I mean, it’s going to be kind of boring for you. But there is coffee there that you wouldn’t have to pay for.”

 _Ah_. That’s the reason, Tobin realizes, as a giddy warmth spreads through her chest. She didn’t know it until the words were out of Christen’s mouth, but this is exactly the outcome she wanted.

“Sure,” she hears herself saying. “I’d love to meet your dog. And drink your coffee.”

(She hopes she sounded nonchalant, instead of enraptured.)

They meander down the sidewalk together in shockingly companionable silence. Out of the corner of her eye, Tobin sneaks a glance at Christen, all bundled up with her scarf around her face, the hood of her puffer coat pulled up tight over her head, and still very obviously shivering in the stiff Chicago wind they’re walking headfirst into.

She feels a sudden, strange urge to wrap her arms around the other girl and shelter her from the wind and maybe tease her for being such a little wimp.

 _Where is this coming from?! Get a fucking grip_ , she chastises herself, forcing herself to turn away and look across the street.

“Hey!” She exclaims, tapping on Christen’s arm to get her attention. There’s a huge billboard across the way, advertising the Nutcracker.

Christen glances over, and her eyes light up. “Look, it’s Mal!” she gasps, pointing. The poster features a close-up of Mal holding a nutcracker in her arms. Christen fishes her phone out of her pocket and snaps a couple pictures. “She’s going to be so excited to see these!”

“Isn’t that you, too?” Tobin asks, pointing to the smaller figure in another part of the poster, in a pink and white tutu.

Christen rolls her eyes and keeps walking, and Tobin has to jog to catch up. “Yeah, I wish they hadn’t put me on it at all. I asked them not to. Anyway…it’s Mal’s first poster ever! I’ll have to get her out here to take a picture in front of it soon.”

As they walk on, Tobin remembers with chagrin all the shit she’d given Christen for those Sleeping Beauty posters over the summer. _She doesn’t even like them herself_.

When they get to Christen’s apartment, on the 20th floor of a skyscraper near the lake, Christen unlocks the touchpad door, and Tobin hesitantly follows Christen in.

Based on Christen’s Instagram presence, Tobin had been expecting a girly, basic space. Some carefully coordinated throw pillows, a fluffy rug, maybe a _Live, Laugh, Love_ sign. Instead, the space is large, sparse, and industrial, all clean lines and warm wood and minimalism. The front area, clearly intended to be an open living and dining space, is actually empty. The walls are entirely made up of windows that provide a glorious, panoramic view of Chicago, sparkling in the dusk, with the lake in the distance. The wooden floor gleams in the low light. There’s a huge mirror propped against the wall, five or six jar candles in the corner, and a yoga mat unrolled near the wall with other workout gear lined up neatly nearby.

At the sound of their entrance, Christen’s little brown dog comes bounding to the door. Its tail wags wildly around as it sniffs at Christen’s knees, and then it jumps over to Tobin.

“This is Morena,” Christen says apologetically, reaching down for Morena’s collar. “Sorry, she’s a little excitable around new people.”

“No, she’s super cute,” Tobin murmurs, getting down on her knees to scratch behind Morena’s ears. She takes the opportunity to linger behind Christen and glance around a little more. Against an exposed brick wall on the far side of the huge room, there’s a bed, low to the ground and covered in an enormous, fluffy, woven white comforter. There’s no other furniture to be seen. It smells like coffee and cedar and sage.

 _I love this_. She hates to admit it to herself, and the very thought seems to scrape uncomfortably against the insides of her chest as it blooms inside her. But as she turns slowly from side to side, mesmerized, she can’t deny it.

When was the last time she had walked into a space and felt it speaking to her? Like it’s telling her, _you’re home_? She can’t recall. And the feeling—and the fact that it’s _Christen Press’s apartment_ —terrifies her.

“Want anything to drink? Coffee, right?” Christen has taken off her shoes and hung her coat and purse up near the door. Shuddering at the thought of herself accidentally tracking Chicago slush over those gleaming floors, Tobin quickly ditches her shoes as well and trails Christen into the dark kitchen. Christen’s got the door of the gleaming silver fridge open, revealing organized rows of three different expensive brands of sparkling water, kombucha, yogurt, and a jug of cold brew.

“Um, anything,” Tobin responds, trying to keep her voice light and casual, trying not to reveal how strangely affected she is by Christen’s home. “Nice place. No furniture?”

“Well, there’s my bed. And there’s a desk and chair over around the corner, you just can’t see them from here.” Christen pulls out a can of Pellegrino for herself and pours a glass cup of cold brew for Tobin. Then she flicks a switch on the wall, and lights come on in the apartment. They’re recessed spotlights, dim and rosy, and they fill the space with even more magic—pools of light like honey, and wavering, soft shadows in between. “I keep this front space open. It’s good for practicing on days I don’t make it into the studio.”

An image of Christen in a sheer white dress, drifting through the pools of light and shadow, floats unbidden to the front of Tobin’s mind.

She pushes it aside.

“Good for dance practice, but less good for entertaining,” Tobin quips, accepting the glass that Christen holds out. “Guess you don’t have guests over very often.”

She means it as a joke—surely Christen is a social butterfly, a queen of society, with hundreds of friends—but as Christen’s face falls and she turns away under the pretense of scratching her dog’s ears, Tobin realizes in shock that she might have accidentally hit too close to home.

“So, uh, what did you have to come back to do before dinner?” Tobin asks, awkwardly changing the subject.

“I need to take Morena for a walk, and then I need to work out a little. Preferably two hours, but I might only have time for one. I cut my usual afternoon routine short to get to the interview on time.” Christen puts her hands on her lips and purses her lips as she thinks.

Tobin says the first thing that comes to mind. “If you need to work out for two hours, why don’t I take Morena for the walk? I’m good with dogs.”

Christen raises one eyebrow. “I barely know you, Tobin Heath. You think I’m going to trust you with my dog?”

Tobin’s about to protest when she realizes that Christen’s kidding.

“I mean, you’re right to be nervous; she’s definitely cute enough to kidnap,” she teases back, looking down at Morena, who’s now sitting obediently right next to Tobin, staring adoringly up at her.

Christen contemplates. “That actually might work. If you’re sure you don’t mind, that is. It’s weird…” she looks slowly from Morena to Tobin. “She’s usually not this good with strangers, but she seems to really like you. But are you sure?”

“Yeah. Can’t risk having you go outside again; you looked like you were going to blow away earlier.” 

Christen rolls her eyes as she hands Tobin a leash and a dog poop bag. “Ha, ha, very funny. As soon as Nutcracker season is over, I’m heading home to California for a month. No money in the world is worth staying the entire winter in Chicago.”

 _So she’s from California_. Tobin tucks this tidbit away in her mind. As she winds through nearby sidewalks with Morena trotting obediently beside her, she thinks through all the other new information she’s learned about Christen in the last few of hours.

_Christen Press has got dope taste in interior decision._

_Christen Press doesn’t like being on promotional posters._

_Christen Press doesn’t have as many friends as I thought she did._

_…Which means that it must have been even harder for her to cut herself off from Casey and the rest._

_…Which she did for my sake, even while I was being a total bitch to her._

_Christen Press said that soccer was an art form today._

_And Christen Press is weirdly adorable when she’s cold._

_But get a grip on whatever this weird, sudden fascination with Christen is_ , Tobin adds to herself as she gets back in the elevator with Morena after an hour-long walk. _Because whatever you want to happen, it’s not going to happen. She’s perfect. She’s not going to be your girlfriend. She might not even be your friend. Right now, she’s just a friend of a friend. She’s made it perfectly clear, over and over, that she’s only trying to be civil with you for Casey’s sake._

Tobin lets herself into the apartment with the passcode Christen had told her. Once again, the apartment has her in its strange, emotional grip at once. It’s warm. Classical music is playing loudly, the lights are dimmed, and all the candles in the living room are burning.

Tobin rounds the entryway corner slowly, lingering halfway in the dark hallway. Christen comes into view in the candlelit room, dancing in the center of the wooden floor, clad in a black leotard and pointe shoes. Her arms and legs are long and thin and perfectly muscular. Her hair is up in a high bun, and a sheer glimmer of sweat covers her skin as she executes a series of spins.

She ends, frozen in place, balanced on one toe with her other leg extended out behind her. Her ribcage rises and falls with her heavy breath. Her eyes are sharp as she carefully studies her own form in the mirror; adjusting the positioning of her arms and shoulders ever-so-slightly.

Tobin watches in a daze. Her mouth has gone dry, making it hard to swallow. The whole darkly glowing room seems to ebb and flow around her. Like Christen’s movement is the ocean, and Tobin is in a little raft, lost at sea.

The spell breaks when Morena dashes up to Christen for kisses, her toes scrabbling on the hardwood floor and her collar clanking loudly. Christen drops down from being on pointe and glances around. When she sees Tobin, she sends her a shy smile.

“Did you have a good walk, baby girl?” she coos at Morena, bending down as Morena snuffles at her face. She settles down cross-legged on the ground and puts her arms around her dog. “Did you have a good walk with your new friend Tobin?”

Tobin’s heart is pounding out of her chest, and she feels like she’s in sensory overload, and a new line appears on Tobin’s mental checklist before she can stop it:

_I think I might be a little bit in love with Christen Press._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you need me these days, you can find me lying in bed listening to Drivers License on repeat. 
> 
> Happy reading!!
> 
> Much love,  
> casson

“So what is up with you and Christen?” Moe asks one day.

Practice has just wrapped up, and Tobin is idly juggling a ball on the field. She had it balanced on her forehead when Moe speaks up. At the sound of the question, she twitches involuntarily, and the ball goes bouncing off her head.

 _Great_.

“Nothing,” Tobin says firmly, chasing after the ball, which is conveniently rolling far away from Moe.

When she gets back, though, Moe hasn’t let it go.

“You literally answered the phone for her and told us that she’d go to Casey’s dinner the other day. And then you showed up together. But then you sat across the room from each other and didn’t talk to each other all night. What’s up with that?”

“I told you already—we ran into each other at the Nike interviews,” Tobin groans. “That’s the only reason I even heard her on the phone with you guys.”

Moe shrugs. “I’m just saying. She’s like, really pretty, isn’t she? Since you seem to have decided not to hate her that much…”

“Is she pretty? I hadn’t noticed,” Tobin lies blatantly. “And just because I’ve decided not to hate her doesn’t mean I’m automatically going to love her. I’ve just decided she’s tolerable.”

In truth, the day of the dinner, Tobin had been so terrified by the sudden onslaught of the realization that she had a crush on Christen Press that she’d spent the rest of the night dodging her. But it wasn’t like that had hurt Christen’s feelings. In fact, Christen had barely seemed to notice. As soon as they’d arrived at Casey’s, she’d gotten swept up by the other girls immediately, and had spent the rest of the night animatedly catching up with them while Tobin—as usual—lingered silently in the background.

Of course she’s not going to tell the other girls that, every hour of every day since then, when she closes her eyes, she sees Christen, dancing in that black leotard in that candlelit room.

The silver lining is that it’s been great motivation. Tobin has pushed herself harder at practice than she has in months. When those dim images start spiraling into more scandalous territory, reminding her of everything she wants and can’t have, Tobin runs faster, lifts more, fights harder for the ball, until her chest and legs are on fire with fatigue. The pain is a refreshing distraction from her thoughts.

Even Rory has noticed. Just that day, after practice ended, he had said, “Not bad, Tobin.” It’s the nicest thing he’s said to her in months.

“Are you going to Kealia’s party this weekend, Tobin?” Casey asks.

“Is Christen going to be there?” The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them.

Moe rolls her eyes. “Yeah, she’s invited. But won’t worry, it’ll be a huge party, so you won’t have to talk to her if you don’t have to! Besides, I thought you guys were getting along better?”

Tobin just shrugs again. “Like I said, I tolerate her.”

When she emerges from the shower a while later, Alyssa’s the last one left in the locker room, packing up her bag. She looks up as Tobin enters the room. “Hey. Earlier, why’d you ask if Christen was going to be at Kealia’s party?”

“Why does everyone want to talk about Christen Press all the time?!” Tobin exclaims. “I just…want to…avoid her.”

Alyssa’s smirks are the worst, because they’re so rare, but so lethal.

“Okay, sure, whatever you say. So now that you know she’s going, you’re _not_ going to go, right?”

Tobin rolls her eyes. “…I’m still thinking about it.”

Really, she shouldn’t go. She needs to get over this weird Christen crisis. She even deleted Instagram off her phone, after her phone had snidely told her that she’d spent three hours on Instagram in one day. She’d filled in the blanks, knowing that she’d spent most of that time scrolling through Christen’s profile. (The last time Christen had posted about Morena had, in fact, been ten months ago. When Tobin saw the date stamp, she had screwed her eyes shut and wished for the floor to swallow her whole.)

But of course, now that she knows Christen’s going to be at this party, she’s going to go, of course. She knows she should try to fight it. But she knows she’s going to fail. 

In the end, she compromises. She tells herself that she should be at the party, just to support Kealia, just to make a good-faith showing of trying to get to know all the other Red Stars players who will be there. She tells herself that she’ll show up to the party late; leave early. She tells herself she’ll greet Christen like the casual friends-of-friends that they are; that she’ll avoid being in the same room as Christen if she can help it.

She doesn’t put any extra thought into her outfit. Okay, fine, maybe she changes once. (Or four times.) Maybe she ends up in tight black ripped jeans and a low-cut white henley shirt that more than one girl has informed her makes her look like Sex on Legs. Maybe she puts on more mascara than usual.

Picking up snacks at the grocery store, she wanders—totally coincidentally, for sure—into the aisle with all the sparkling water. Seltzer makes for a good drink mixer. She’ll just get one kind. Maybe two. All right, fine, three. (It’s a big party, after all.) And it’s just a coincidence that these happen to be the same three brands she glimpsed in Christen’s fridge last week.

After not-so-subtly watching Tobin lift three boxes of seltzer into her shopping cart, wearing her Sex on Legs outfit, a girl in the grocery store asks for her number on the spot. Instead of texting her without a second thought, which is her typical _modus operandi_ , Tobin turns the girl down firmly. For no particular reason, she tells herself. She’s just not in the mood. She just needs to focus on the upcoming NWSL championships.

The party is in full swing by the time Tobin shows up. She ducks through the crowded house, keeping an eye out for Christen (purely for avoidance purposes, of course). Her first stop is the kitchen, to drop off the seltzer and other snacks on the crowded counter, where she runs into Casey. But Casey’s talking to some of the rookies, who don’t look too pleased to see Tobin, so she bounces as fast as possible. She spots Alyssa, Moe, and Fabrice leaning against the wall in the hallway, far from the living room where music is blasting.

“Tobin, you made it! And you look great!” Moe cheers when Tobin joins them.

“You look _suspiciously_ great,” Alyssa adds under her breath.

Tobin rolls her eyes. “I’m slightly insulted that you guys don’t think I look great all the time.”

“I didn’t realize you were a seltzer person,” Moe says, gesturing at the can in Tobin’s hand.

Tobin looks down at it, shrugs, takes a sip. It’s actually not bad. “Well, championship game coming up, you know. I figured I’d lay off the beer for a while.”

She doesn’t know quite how to feel about the approval evident in Moe and Alyssa’s eyes. It makes her feel kind of pitiful, that they’re clearly keeping track of all her horrible decisions.

But at the same time, it also feels…kind of great.

To be doing one thing right for once, even if it’s a tiny thing.

“Oh, hey.” Moe looks over Tobin’s shoulder towards the door. “Christen just got here.”

All the hairs on Tobin’s arms are suddenly standing on end.

She feels Alyssa’s observant gaze on her, so stubbornly, she doesn’t turn to look. She leans against the wall and tries to distract herself by playing an old familiar game, trying to pinpoint the face of the hottest girl in sight.

It doesn’t work. Everyone standing in her line of sight might as well have potatoes for heads. There’s a tight sensation in her chest, like she’s deep underwater and suddenly Christen is the only oxygen in the whole house. If she could just get close to her—if she could just lay on eyes on her, or hear her voice—then she could breathe.

“Christen!” She hears Casey squeal from the kitchen.

“Casey, hi!”

It’s a little burst of oxygen. Totally tuning out whatever Moe and Fabrice are talking about beside her, Tobin takes a deep breath, strains to hear more over the ruckus.

“Should I just put this wine with the rest of the alcohol here?”

“Yeah, I think that’d be fine with Kealia and JJ. You want me to ask for a corkscrew to open it?”

“No, thanks. I have early practice tomorrow, so I shouldn’t be drinking too much—I’ll just have one of these. Hey, this is my favorite sparkling water brand—actually, this one is too! What are the odds?”

“Oh, that’s funny…”

Tobin knows Casey well enough to be able to tell, just from the tone of her voice, that the gears are starting to turn in her head.

_Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it—_

“Actually, Tobin brought…all of those,” Casey says.

There’s a long beat of silence.

And since Tobin’s a fucking coward, she makes a run for it.

“Uh, I’m going to find a bathroom,” she announces, interrupting poor Fabrice in the middle of a sentence.

“It’s over by the kitchen,” Moe starts to say, but Tobin is already charging in the other direction. The living room is dark and loud and packed with bodies—perfect. She winds her way into the fray, not stopping until she reaches the far windows, where she plops down on one of the wide window seats.

There’s now a roomful of darkness and bodies between herself and Christen Press, and she simultaneously feels relieved and wildly bereft.

She can already see multiple girls eyeing her down, but she just pulls out her phone and angles herself so she’s facing out the windows. She watches the cars pass below and wishes she was inside one of them. _Coming tonight was a mistake. I’ll just stay for fifteen more minutes and then peace out. Maybe with one of these girls._

“Um, Tobin!!”

She turns, and groans when she sees that Moe, Alyssa, and Casey have found her. She checks over their shoulders instinctively.

“No, Christen’s not with us,” Casey says, reading Tobin’s mind. She crosses her arms and smirks. “When were you going to tell us?”

“Tell you what?!” Tobin fights back feebly, even though she knows the ruse is useless.

“Tell us that you have a massive crush on Christen Press!” Moe chimes in.

“Moe! Jesus Christ, keep it down!” Tobin hisses. “And I told you already, I do not!”

“So you just buy three different kinds of party drinks specifically tailored to any random girl on the street?”

“You shouldn’t have told her that I brought them, Casey,” Tobin grumbles.

“Why not?!” Casey’s incredulous. “Come on, it was sweet! How did you even know what she likes?”

“Well, I saw them in the fridge in her apartment—”

“When were you in her APARTMENT—?!”

“Guys, shut up!” Tobin pleads again, more urgently this time. “Please, can we just stop talking about this?”

“I don’t get what’s wrong,” Moe protests. “She’s perfect.”

Well, Moe’s right—she _is_ perfect.

And that’s exactly what’s wrong.

 _For fucks sake, just look at her, and then look at me,_ Tobin wants to say.

Instead, she says, “Listen, I’m just not…I’m not in a dating headspace right now.” Three mouths frown in unison at her. “I know she’s hot, okay, but can we leave it? I’m not looking for anything long term. You all know that. I’m not in the market for a girlfriend.”

What she really means is, _I’m not capable of being a good girlfriend._

Casey sighs. “Okay, sorry, we’ll stop bugging you about it. If you really don’t want to date seriously, then maybe you’re right. Christen’s definitely a girlfriend-girl. If you’re not in the market for a girlfriend, you should leave her alone.”

What she really hears is, _If you’re not capable of being a good girlfriend, you should leave her alone._

Dark clouds move in over Tobin’s head.

“For the record,” Alyssa pipes up for the first time, “Tobin, we think you could be a girlfriend-girl too.”

“I…” Tobin feels suddenly like she’s suffocating. “I…uh…think I’m going to get another drink.”

She slinks through the dark crowd away from them. Great. Now, instead of having to dodge one person at this party, she has to dodge four. As she rounds the corner into the kitchen, she wonders if she should actually make the new drink, or if she should just toss her empty seltzer can and run for the hills.

But then—there’s Christen.

Christen’s leaning up against the kitchen counter, chatting with Kealia’s husband JJ. When Tobin enters the room, many eyes turn and lock on her. That’s fine; she’s used to that.

What she’s not used to is having so many eyes on while she’s standing there trying to remember how to breathe.

Christen is wearing black jeans, and they’re tight, really tight, and Tobin has to fight to keep from ogling her ass in front of a roomful of people. And she’s wearing a tight white tank top, through which the faint outline of a black bra is just barely visible, and Tobin has to fight to keep from ogling her boobs in front of a roomful of people.

And then there’s the hair. Tobin’s never seen Christen’s hair like this before: free-flowing and natural, spiraling in long, unruly, glorious curls down her back. The sight makes her mouth go dry. She tips what’s left of her seltzer into her mouth and crumples up the can, glad to have something distracting to do with her hands.

How can she leave now?

She’s got her back turned and is busy mixing a drink when she feels Christen come up beside her.

“Hey, you.”

“Hey.” Tobin thinks her voice just cracked. She winces. She reads the label on a bottle of vodka with much more concentration than is necessary. If she looks over at Christen, she’s afraid she might faint.

“I hear we have the same taste in sparkling water.”

In spite of herself, Tobin looks up. Christen’s smirking at her. She wants to die.

“Yeah, funny coincidence, that,” she says faintly.

Christen smells like flowers. Her eyes, with their ever-changing colors, are a soft, muted gray-blue tonight. She finds herself staring at the soft pink swell of Christen’s lips, and suddenly she hears a refrain in her head: _If you’re not capable of being a good girlfriend, you should leave her alone._

She clears her throat and clears her head. She steps back. (“Steps” is generous. She stumbles back, really.) “I’m, uh, hogging all the space here,” she says. “You probably want me to get out of the way so you can make a drink or something. Um. Okay, bye.”

Before Christen can respond, she flees the room.

She goes back to her perch near the living room windows. The music is good, but Tobin doesn’t like dancing where people can see her, and this room is way too small for her comfort. Just sitting is fine. Great, actually. From across the dark room, she can inconspicuously observe Christen, who’s now leaning against the wall talking with Casey, just casually, absentmindedly being the most beautiful creature on earth.

Just glancing occasionally at her from across a room feels like enough for Tobin. Like small gasps of oxygen.

Unfortunately, though, her Sex on Legs outfit is doing too much work for her tonight. The fact that she’s sitting alone, moodily staring off into the distance, doesn’t stop multiple girls from trying to claim her. Twice she gets pulled up onto her feet by girls with dark, suggestive expressions, but she always manages to wiggle off of the dance floor after a few minutes and return to her seat. Worse is when girls try to squeeze onto the window seat with her, which is unfortunately large enough for two to sit together, if they huddle close.

After a couple girls attempt this, Tobin pivots on her butt and plants her feet, in their heavy combat boots, across the cushioned ledge. _Sorry, Kealia_. _I’ll pay for the dry cleaning._

Half an hour in—or maybe an hour, who’s counting?—Moe swings by to check on her and refill her drink. Tobin finally puts her feet down to let Moe sit beside her. “I think some people are going to play a drinking game in the dining room. Christen too, probably. Want to come? You’ve just been sitting here on your phone.”

_I’ve actually been sitting here trying not to stare at Christen talking to people, but potato, po-tah-to._

“No, thanks,” she says.

“Tobes…” Moe puts a comforting arm around her shoulder. “Listen, if you don’t want to date her, don’t date her. But that doesn’t mean you have to avoid her entirely. I saw you basically sprint away from her in the kitchen earlier.”

Tobin ducks her head, embarrassed. “It’s fine, Moe, really. I’m fine. I should head home soon anyway.”

“Okay, suit yourself. Find me before you leave, okay?” Moe pecks a kiss onto Tobin’s head as she rises. “Love you.”

Tobin scans the room as Moe walks off. Christen’s nowhere to be seen. She’s probably already with the group in the dining room. Tobin’s slightly tipsier than she was planning to be, so she’s on her phone, pulling up Uber, when a girl drops down in the vacant space beside her.

 _Shit_. She’d forgotten to reclaim it after Moe left.

“Hey, you want to dance?” the girl slurs. She’s clearly had much more to drink than Tobin has.

She’s cute. She’s got long, reddish-blonde hair. Her mascara has run a little.

Tobin looks at her and feels nothing.

“Uh, no thanks.” Tobin tries to scoot away, but it’s hard to, on the narrow window seat.

The girl presses her thigh up against Tobin’s, tries again.

“You’re Tobin Heath.”

“Yeah, and you’re…” Tobin leans as far away from the girl as she can without literally toppling off the seat, “…drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk. I wanna dance.”

“Well, I do not, so it looks like we are not compatible.”

The girl pouts. “What do you want me to be compatible with? Just tell me. I’ll do it. Anything you want.”

“Uh, anything I want? Okay. Get up, walk to the kitchen, drink some water, and count to, uh, six hundred.” _Ten minutes should be plenty of time to call an Uber and get the hell out of here._

The girl just giggles and clutches at Tobin’s arm. “You’re so _funny._ ”

_Ugh, my best snark, wasted on someone too drunk to appreciate it._

“Listen, I’m going to get up now,” Tobin says firmly. “Stop leaning on me and sit up, or you’re going to fall over.”

“Noooo,” the girl moans.

“Hey, someone needs you over there.”

Tobin looks up at the sound of the new voice.

Christen is standing over them, staring unsmilingly down at the girl.

“Who are you?” the girl stares hazily up at her. “Hi, you’re pretty. Did we meet earlier?”

“Someone’s asking for you,” Christen repeats, arching an eyebrow.

“Who?”

“That girl, uh, there.” Christen points towards the packed kitchen. “ _Now_. It’s urgent.”

Shrugging, the girl uncoils herself from the window seat and strolls in the general direction Christen’s pointing. She looks over her shoulder towards Christen for further instructions, but Christen’s already settling down in the newly vacated spot with her arms crossed.

Tobin can’t breathe.

After resigning herself to far-off glimpses of Christen for the rest of the night—and for the rest of her life—the sudden proximity is overwhelming. The seat is just narrow enough that when Christen sits, their legs are pressed up tight against each other. Tobin can feel the curling ends of Christen’s hair tickling her neck and arms, like little sparkles against the surface of her skin. The smell of her floral perfume is heady and sweet.

“Hey.” Christen picks at an invisible piece of lint on her pants.

_You should run. You should leave her alone. No, wait, maybe you should stay. She sought you out, not the other way around! Hell, who are you even kidding. You don’t have the capacity to walk away from Christen Press. Now or ever._

“So, who was asking for her?”

“Uh…” Christen glances up at Tobin, then towards the kitchen. “Uh, just this girl. In the kitchen.”

She’s a terrible liar, and Tobin loves that about her.

Tobin leans in closer. In a low murmur that barely rises over the loud thrum in the room, she breathes in Christen’s ear. “Could it be possible, Christen Press, that you engineered all that just to save me from that girl?”

It's dangerous to be so flirty, Tobin knows, but Christen's beauty is literally taking Tobin's breath away. Her insides feel like a tightly wound spring. Like Tobin has to lean towards Christen, breathe in that smell, tell her how beautiful she is, lest she explode.

“Well…” Christen shrugs a little, which Tobin can feel against her shoulder. “I guess that depends. Did you want to be saved from that girl?”

Tobin drops her voice even further. This time, when she leans in, her lips graze Christen’s earlobe ever so slightly, sending her dangling earrings swinging. “By you? Definitely yes.”

They’re sitting so close to each other that Tobin can hear the breath hitch in Christen’s throat.

“Good,” Christen says. Her voice gets a little pouty, a little irked. “Maybe I should’ve stepped in, like, eight girls ago.”

 _She’s been watching me_. Tobin can feel the realization pulsing through her bloodstream. _She’s been watching me like I’ve been watching her_.

“You look really fucking good tonight,” she blurts out without thinking.

Christen stares at her, wide-eyed, for a long second, and then bursts into one of her signature beautiful smiles.

Tobin should really stop talking, but she can’t help herself. Maybe it’s the vodka in her system, or maybe it’s just the dam breaking after a whole night of restraint. The only thing that seems to matter in that moment is to get Christen to smile at her like that, again and again and again. “Your hair. You don’t usually wear it like this.”

Christen touches her curls a little self-consciously. “Yeah, some people tell me it’s unprofessional.”

“Well, fuck those people,” Tobin declares, and there it is again, that smile. “It’s amazing, just like this.”

It seems like Christen doesn’t know quite where to look. She smiles down at her hands folded in her lap, then up at the ceiling, and finally over at Tobin.

“I’m glad I finally got you alone. I wanted to ask how you’re doing. The other night—you got kind of quiet at Casey’s dinner.”

 _So she did notice_. Once again, Tobin is caught off guard that Christen is paying her any attention.

“Did I?” she feigns ignorance. “I didn’t realize.”

Something in the knowing little expression on Christen’s face tells her that Christen sees right through her.

She _sees_ her.

And that, in and of itself, is terrifying.

“I had never seen you dance before,” Tobin muses. It sounds like a non sequitur, but of course, Tobin’s not going to say out loud that she went from “ _I was quiet at dinner”_ to “ _I was struggling to process these feelings about you”_ to “ _I think watching you dance that night—just for a moment—broke something in me and healed something in me all at once_.” 

“Yeah, you mentioned that in the interview. That you’d never seen me dance.”

“Did I?” She’s feigning ignorance again, and this time, Christen actually rolls her eyes and chuckles.

“Give me your phone.”

“Uh…what?” Tobin feels her hands go clammy, but already, she’s reaching into her pocket, utterly powerless to resist anything this girl asks for.

“I’m going to text you a time and place.” Christen is already taking Tobin’s phone, texting her own number. “I’d like you to come.”

“Are you going to bring me somewhere to murder me?” Tobin makes an attempt at humor, even though her heart is beating a mile a minute. “Because I could take you.”

Christen shoots her the ghost of a smirk as she drops the phone back into Tobin’s palm with pointed, delicate fingers. “No, I really don’t think you could.”

Tobin looks down at her phone, which suddenly seems like a new, precious thing with Christen’s number saved inside. “Okay,” she says faintly. “I’ll come. Wherever. Whenever.”

_Utterly powerless to resist._

Christen smiles and pulls out her own phone and starts drafting the text to Tobin. The illumination lights up her face in stark shadows, and Tobin sees a spot of lint in her hair. Half-entranced, she reaches out a hand to brush at the long curl lying over Christen’s shoulder.

It’s just a coincidence, of course, that her knuckles brush softly against the underside of Christen’s jaw as she does it.

In an ideal universe, this would be terribly romantic, and Christen would look up with wide, sultry eyes, and they’d stare breathlessly at each other and then suddenly start making out, and one thing would lead to another…

But this is not an ideal universe. And Tobin fucks up everything in her life. So when she touches Christen’s jaw, Christen lets out a little shriek and flinches away, batting her hand through the air. Tobin jumps backwards, startled, and their knuckles crash against each other’s, bruisingly hard.

Both girls gasp and wince. Everyone’s looking at them.

_Smooth, Tobin, fucking smooth._

“There was something in your hair!” Tobin says by way of apology, going after Christen’s phone where she’s dropped it on the carpet.

“Sorry,” Christen gasps, cradling one hand in the other, wincing in pain. “I thought it was a bug!”

“Let me see your hand,” Tobin urges, even though her own knuckles still feel like they’re on fire. Christen holds her hand out, but grits her teeth and lets out a hiss as she tries to unclench her fist.

There’s a crowd gathering around them, and in a second, Kealia whisks them away to the kitchen for ice. Nothing is less romantic, Tobin decides, than watching from across a packed kitchen as Kealia and JJ ice Christen’s knuckles with frozen peas. A gaggle of concerned busybodies crowds around, walling Tobin off from Christen.

“Good going,” Alyssa chuckles, from where she and a bunch of other Red Stars players have appeared behind Tobin. Apparently the commotion has pulled in the entire group of people from the dining room.

“She thought I was a bug!” Tobin moans plaintively, burying her face in Alyssa’s shoulder in shame.

“It’s okay, she knows it was an accident,” Casey says comfortingly, though she’s clearly trying not to laugh as well. “Oh, Tobin. Only you.”

From behind Casey, Julie snickers. “What were you trying to do, anyway? Impress her? It’s not like it would’ve worked out anyway; I mean, she’s out of your league.”

Tobin’s face falls. Julie doesn’t even notice. She sashays her way out of the kitchen, still munching on a snack.

Casey edges closer to Tobin’s side, gives her a comforting squeeze on the arm. Under the cover of the party’s overlapping chatter, she whispers, “That’s not true, Tobin. You know that, right? You’re in everyone’s league, girl.”

Tobin purses her mouth, trying not to let her roiling emotions show to everyone else in the room. “No, she’s right,” she whispers back, her words edged with harshness. Across the room, Christen’s giggling and chatting as she’s surrounded by adoring admirers. “She’s totally right; Christen’s out of my league.”

_If you’re not capable of being a good girlfriend, you should leave her alone._

“Tobes—” Moe protests sadly.

“I think I’m ready to leave now,” Tobin interrupts, with finality. “I’m going to call a car.”

“Want to sleep over my place? I’ll drive us home,” Alyssa offers.

 _Actually, that sounds pretty wonderful_. Tobin leans on Alyssa’s shoulder again and nods. “Let’s go.”

“I’m going to grab my stuff,” Alyssa says. Then she gives Tobin a pointed look. “And you’re going to go over there and say good-bye properly to Christen.”

“Lyss, no, please—look at all the people—let’s just go; she won’t even notice I’m gone—”

The look in Alyssa’s eyes is somewhere between sympathy and exasperation. “Tobes, do it, or I’m not driving you.”

Tobin groans. Weaseling through all these people, in this bright, packed room, to speak to Christen in front of a crowd, is her worst nightmare. But as she’s biting her lip and just starting to squeeze her way through, Christen looks up and sees her. With a dismissive wave of her hand, the crowd disperses, and Christen beelines toward Tobin.

“How’s your hand?” Christen asks softly. Before Tobin can properly react, Christen is lifting Tobin’s hand in hers, examining her knuckles carefully. They’re a little red. “You should probably be icing too.”

Christen’s touch is soft and delicate and cold.

_I may never wash this hand again._

“I’ll ice when I get back to Alyssa’s. We’re heading out now.”

Christen’s smile droops, just the tiniest bit. “Oh.”

“I’ll see you around, okay?” Tobin resists the totally irrational urge to flip Christen’s hand over in hers and kiss her cool, smooth palm. Instead, she drops her arm, and after a moment of resistance, their fingers break apart. “Take care of yourself. Sorry again, about, uh, the hand,” Tobin stutters out before making her escape. 

Back at Alyssa’s place, Tobin’s settling down in her usual couch spot with Alyssa’s spare blanket and pillow when Alyssa pokes her head in the door. “Tobes, I just wanted to say, what Julie said at the party earlier—that was incredibly mean of her. And she wasn’t right. You know that, right?”

“No, she was right,” Tobin insists. Her tone is mellow, weighed down by sleepiness and vodka. She’s resigned. The harsh pain of Julie’s insult has faded a little, leaving her with only a deep, gray sadness sitting in the pit of her stomach. It feels heavy. It feels like truth. The sad truth that Christen Press is completely, unalterably out of her league.

“I _do_ want to be a girlfriend-girl, Lyss,” she admits suddenly, staring up at the dark ceiling. “I want to be _her_ girlfriend-girl.”

“I know, Tobes, I know. And you can be.”

“No. She thought I was a bug earlier. When I touched her. And she’s right. I’m a bug.” Tobin mutters, her eyes starting to drift shut. She snuggles herself down under the blanket, and readjusts the throw pillow beneath her cheek. She thinks about the way Christen always smells like flowers.

“A bug?” Alyssa asks.

“Yeah, a bug. Who’s in love with a garden. But it’s not like the garden will ever love it back, right?”

* * *

_Definitely a bug._

Tobin cringes under the judgmental gaze of the receptionist at the front desk of the Chicago Arts Academy, who’s scanning Tobin from head to toe. Tobin imagines that the woman has just stepped on a bug on the ground, and is lifting her shoe to examine the smushed wreckage. _Yeah, that’s the exact expression_.

“You can’t just walk in without a door pass,” the receptionist says snidely. On cue, the door opens behind Tobin, and a group of women walk in. Without a door pass.

Wordlessly, maintaining icy eye contact with the receptionist, Tobin stretches out her arm and points in the direction of the passing women.

The receptionist just sniffs. “Like I said. You need a door pass.”

Tobin knows what this is all about. If she’d known earlier, she would’ve changed before following the address and instructions that Christen had texted her the other night.

2:30 PM on Friday. An address, for the Chicago Art Academy. And an extra note, _Bring two iced hazelnut coffees with oat milk_.

Hanging out at a ballet school on a Friday afternoon does not sound like Tobin’s idea of a good time. But the idea of drinking coffee with Christen definitely does. And then there’s the whole u _tterly powerless to resist_ thing she has going on with Christen.

If she’d known that the receptionist would take one look at her oversized sweatpants and battered leather jacket and orange snapback and deny her entry, she would’ve changed.

Then again, she might not have had anything to change into, anyway. The students streaming in and out of the doors are all in leotards and legwarmers. The adults are in suits.

Tobin does not own any of these articles of clothing. 

“Listen,” she huffs, exasperated, but stubborn. “Christen Press told me to come meet her here. I’m just following orders. Are you going to let me in or what.”

Tobin used to think it was just a figure of speech, but the receptionist quite literally turns her nose up. “I have tried the number we have for Ms. Press on file, and she didn’t answer to confirm that she knows you." The clear, unspoken undercurrent of the receptionist's remark is, _Someone who looks and acts like you must surely be lying about knowing Christen Press._ Tobin hears the judgmental tone in her voice and thinks of bugs and gardens. "If you don’t have a door pass and I can’t reach your host live, I can’t let you in. Please don’t make me call security.”

“Fine.” Tobin rolls her eyes. As a large group of people—wide-eyed parents and prospective students on a tour—comes in the door behind her, she picks up her cardboard coffee cup carrier from the counter and slinks backwards towards the set of glass doors that lead further into the building.

As soon as the receptionist turns her back to greet the new crowd, some students come through the doors from the other side. Quick as a wink, Tobin slips through the doors before they shut.

She finds herself in a gorgeous atrium. Dashing away from the doors as fast as possible, in case the receptionist (and her threatened security force) comes after her, she takes the stairs two at a time. This building is so different from the Red Stars’ training facility—a high ceiling painted with frescos, from which an enormous chandelier hangs, arches high overhead. The winding staircase she’s heading up is carpeted in lush forest-green fabric. Ballet dancers bustle up and down the steps around her, pointe shoes in hand and tote bags draped over their shoulders.

She winds up on the second floor. _Practice room 4_ , Christen’s text had said, and she follows the bronze gilt signs on the wall. As she takes a right and enters a hallway lined with practice rooms, things get a little more basic. There are cubbies up and down the hallway stuffed with duffle bags, and water bottles are littered across the floor, which she’s sort of used to. Different songs, blasting at full volume, echo out of each door she passes. The first and second rooms contain whole groups of dozens of dancers, the third room has just five or six guys stretching at the bar, the fourth room…

Tobin’s steps slow as she approaches. It doesn’t help that there’s actually a crowd of younger students gathered outside the glass door, whispering intensely to each other.

“Oh my god, look at her adage, it’s so perfect…”

“Did you see their pirouettes earlier? Totally in sync, it was creepy.”

“Imagine trying to synchronize your pirouettes with Christen Press, while she’s judging you, I’d be so nervous I’d just fall…”

“Uh, excuse me,” Tobin finally says, clearing her throat.

The little huddle of young ballet students breaks apart as she approaches. Tobin can’t help but notice that their judgmental little stares mirror the expression of the receptionist below. _Ignore it, you’re here for Christen, not for anyone else_ , Tobin tells herself firmly as she picks her way through the crowd and slips through the glass doors.

The practice room, like all the others, is large and pristine and airy. A series of skylights flood the room with natural light, and the mirrors that cover all the wall space make the room seem even bigger and brighter. Classical music, vaguely recognizable, emanates from a surround sound speaker system. In the middle of the room, Christen is standing with her back to the door and her hands on her hips. She’s wearing a white leotard today, long white stockings, black legwarmers, and pointe shoes, and there’s a sheen of sweat across her neck and back.

And she’s not alone.

“Watch your piques, Mal, you’re tottering a little on your right leg,” Christen instructs. At that moment, Mal glances quizzically over Christen’s shoulder to check who the intruder is, and she and Tobin immediately make eye contact.

“What are _you_ doing here?!” Mal spits out, barreling to a standstill.

Christen turns. “Oh, Tobin!” She exclaims, using a little clicker in her hand to pause the music. “Hey!”

“You knew she was coming?” Mal whispers to Christen, glaring in Tobin’s direction.

Tobin withers a little under Mal’s glare. _Okay, okay, I know I deserve it_ , she thinks. _I’ve treated Christen like shit for a while now. In front of Mal._

“Yeah, I invited her,” Christen says simply. “Wow, Tobin, you brought us coffee? You shouldn’t have!”

 _Well, you literally commanded me to_ , Tobin is about to say, but there’s an amused warning look in Christen’s eyes. So she pivots accordingly. “Uh, yeah, figured you guys would…need a break? Iced hazelnut coffee with oat milk?”

_So much for a coffee date with Christen._

Mal still looks suspicious, but she uncrosses her arms. “That’s our favorite, isn’t it, Christen?”

“What a coincidence,” Christen says. Her eyes are dancing with mirth. “That was so considerate of you, Tobin.”

“Yeah…” Mal says reluctantly, taking a cup from Tobin’s outstretched hand. “Thank you.”

“You should’ve gotten one for yourself too,” Christen adds as Tobin hands her the other one, a wicked grin spreading across her face.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Tobin mouths. But she smiles when Christen smiles. She can’t help herself.

“How’s your hand?” Tobin asks. If she were braver, she’d pick up Christen’s hand to give it a close look.

“How’s yours?” Christen retorts. She picks up Tobin’s hand to give it a close look. Tobin stops breathing.

“Looks like I got off a little better than you did,” Christen chuckles, angling Tobin’s hand back and forth in her own a little, observing her mottled red-and-purple bruise.

“My fault, probably. I forgot to ice it that night.” Tobin takes a deep breath, flips over Christen’s hand in her own. “Yours looks great.”

They stand there for a moment, pretending to look at each other’s knuckles with purely scientific curiosity.

“Ahem,” Mal says, and they flinch apart. She takes a long sip of her coffee and gives them an amused, knowing stare that makes her look older than her years. “Are we practicing, or what?” 

“Yes,” Christen says briskly, reaching up to tame invisible fly-aways into her high bun as she takes a large step back. “Tobin, you said you wanted to see some ballet, so I thought you might want to come hang out with us as we practice today. This is the Chicago Art Academy, which is the Chicago Ballet Company’s affiliate dance school. Mal’s a student here. Did you get in okay?”

“The woman at the front desk gave me a hard time, but I guess that was my fault.” Tobin shrugs. “I didn’t have whatever paperwork she needed for a door pass, or whatever.”

“What paperwork?” Mal asks, confused. “I’ve had guests before, and there’s no paperwork.”

Tobin shrugs nonchalantly. “I just snuck past when she threatened to call security. No harm, no foul.”

Christen’s face hardens for a moment. Then she shakes her head and continues, “We’ve started full Nutcracker rehearsals, of course, but on the side, I also come here to help Mal with the Clara routine.”

“Some productions of the Nutcracker cast little kids as Clara and the Prince,” Mal explains, warming up to Tobin a little, “But CBC uses a teenagers, so we have our own full routines to learn. And they are _hard_.”

“And Mal is the youngest ever Clara cast, as I’ve mentioned!”

“Stop, Chris, you’re embarrassing me,” Mal whines, but she’s grinning.

“Why don’t we take it from the pirouettes,” Christen says, fiddling with a remote control to cue the music. “Tobin, you can hang out on the bench over here.”

Tobin settles down, more intrigued than she’d like to admit to see this behind-the-scenes glimpse of Christen’s life.

And it does not disappoint.

Several minutes in, her mouth is already gaping open at Mal’s routine. When she executes this insane jump—Christen’s rattling out the names of the moves in French, but Tobin doesn’t quite catch it—Tobin thinks it unbelievably impressive. Gravity defying, even. But Christen’s not happy with it. “You’re stiff in the shoulders, Mal,” she says, stopping her. “And remember to keep your hip low. Again.”

Mal goes again. When she moves, balancing on the tips of her toes, Tobin can see the muscles straining in her legs and neck. Christen claps to the beat and calls out the moves, and by the end of the piece, Mal is wiping pools of sweat off her face.

“I thought that was dope,” Tobin marvels.

She’s surprised when Mal shakes her head and wrinkles her nose. “It was shit,” Mal says plaintively. “I’m going again. Chris, can you show me from the arabesque croisee again?”

Tobin catches her breath as Christen executes one of the moves Mal just did, lifting her back leg up into the air and balancing on her front. Mal copies her, and though Tobin’s new to all this, she can see the difference—the way Christen doesn’t wobble at all, the way her foot arches more dramatically in the back, the way she keeps her chin up with an easy, effortless smile. Mal pulls the move off, but you can tell she’s concentrating hard on getting it exactly right. Tobin shudders to think what she’d look like if she even attempted to join them.

There’s a million little things to get right, Tobin realizes as she watches. Every time she thinks Mal’s got something down perfectly, every time Mal does a move that seems so difficult it’s inhuman, the dancers identify something wrong with it. “Too high in the hips,” or “Get your weight off that back leg,” or “Your hands are a little stiff, just try to soften the third and fourth fingers.” They go for over an hour.

At one point, Mal stops and leans her hands against the mirror, chest heaving. “Hold on. Hold on. I think I’m going to puke.”

Christen doesn’t look nearly as alarmed as Tobin thinks she should.

A moment passes, and then Mal looks up, beads of sweat running down her temples. “Okay, just kidding. False alarm. Let’s go again.”

“Isn’t that a sign that you should stop?!” Tobin exclaims.

Christen and Mal exchange amused glances.

“When Christen danced the lead in Sleeping Beauty this past summer, she threw up behind the scenes in the middle of the show like, every night. Right, Chris?”

Tobin can feel herself gaping like a fish. In her mind, she sees that poster of Christen over the summer. With that fucking flower crown. The flower crown she mocked Christen for, repeatedly.

“You _what_?”

Christen just shrugs. “Yeah, I mean, it’s kind of gross, but that’s how far you have to push your body for Aurora. It’s physically, technically, emotionally demanding. It’s non-stop. At the end of the show every night, I literally couldn’t feel my legs, and my whole body would shake.”

 _And I was mocking her for the fucking flower crown_. _I can’t believe she’s still deigning to speak to me._

“That doesn’t sound healthy.”

Mal lets out a belly laugh. “Oh, sweet summer child. Who told you ballet was _healthy_?”

(It feels weird, but somehow humbling and entirely appropriate, to be called a _sweet summer child_ by a literal fifteen-year-old right now.)

“Okay, come on Mal, leave her alone,” Christen chides, sending Tobin an apologetic smile. “Okay, start from the adages. Faster this time.”

They go again, for another half hour, until Mal is literally drenched in sweat and her legs are shaking with exertion.

Tobin thinks back to when she was fifteen, playing soccer, and she honestly doesn’t know if she could say she worked this hard.

“Okay, I think that’s good for today,” Christen finally says, as Mal leans on the barre, panting up a lung. “What’s next for you?”

 _A nice hot shower_ , Tobin thinks, _or a million years of sleep, or—_

“I’ve got Pilates with Rose for the next hour, then quick dinner, then my online math class, then pas de deux practice with Freddie until 10 PM,” Mal rattles off.

“You’re not done for the day?!” Tobin exclaims. “That’s insane.”

“It never ends,” Mal laughs breathlessly, tossing her sweat-soaked towel into a bin in the corner. “Christen’s got it even worse.”

“No, no, I don’t have homework to do like you do,” Christen brushes it off. “Make sure you and Freddie practice your bourrée en couru; you guys still weren’t in sync last time.”

“Christen guest-teaches a couple classes here, and they’re like, the most popular ones. All the students want to sign up for them,” Mal explains to Tobin. “And of course, she has rehearsal with the company at the downtown theater every day from 10-2. Individual rehearsal and group rehearsal. It’ll be all day soon, with the Nutcracker coming up.”

“Your rehearsals must be really interesting to sit in on,” Tobin pipes up. Her only big regret of the day is that Christen only danced in bits and pieces, showing moves to Mal. It’s not enough. She’s aching to see Christen actually dancing.

Christen and Mal exchange an inscrutable look, and then Christen rolls her eyes. “Trust me, you don’t want to come to company rehearsals. They’re more boring than you’d think, especially with the Nutcracker season coming up. A lot of sitting around and waiting and staging. You should come to the Nutcracker, though, when we open.”

A girl around Mal’s age pops her head into the room. “Ready for Pilates?” she asks.

“Yeah, let’s go! Tobin, this is my classmate Rose Lavelle,” Mal introduces. Tobin’s gratified to see that Mal seems to be totally at ease around her now. Christen’s coffee ploy really did the trick. The two high school students whisk their way out the door, and it’s just Christen and Tobin.

Tobin laughs as she leans her head back against the wall. “ _Rose Lavelle_. With a name like that, could you really end up as anything but a ballet dancer? If I were writing a teen novel about a ballet dancer, I would name my main character _Rose Lavelle_.”

Christen chuckles too. “She’s good. Really good. Understudying Mal for Clara, actually. So…” she spreads her arms at the now-empty room. “What did you think?”

“I think you guys are insane,” Tobin says honestly. “That was—wow. When she did that thing, where she was just walking on her tiptoes across the room—it looks like she’s walking on clouds.”

Christen laughs, then grimaces. “That’s the bourrée en couru. Feels more like walking on needles, actually, but making it look easy is all part of the art.”

“ _Couru_ , like…running?”

Christen’s eyebrows fly up towards her hairline. “You speak French?” Then she catches herself, and blushes scarlet, and picks at the strap on her pointe shoes. “I mean—sorry, I didn’t mean to act surprised—it’s not like I expected you not to speak French—”

“It’s fine,” Tobin hastens to say, a little bewildered. “Seriously.”

Christen frowns. “It’s just that last time, when I said I liked your photographs, in your kitchen, you know, you said…”

“ _Don’t act so surprised_.” Tobin remembers now. She draws in a deep breath. _Wow, why do I suck so much?_ “About that. I mean, that wasn’t you. That was really just me, being an asshole. And listen, I, uh, I know I owe you an apology. I was really a bitch to you. About your profession. And sort of in general.”

Christen smiles down at her toes, then looks up at Tobin with a quirked eyebrow. “Well, you _acted_ like one. But I’m not really sure you ever _were_ one.”

Tobin just ducks her head in shame. There’s a broader conversation to be had here, but right now, she can only focus on the specifics. “I was so wrong about ballet. You guys are athletes. Obviously. Looks like everyone knew it but me.”

Christen just shrugs, playing with one of her leotard straps. “No, you certainly weren’t the only person who thinks so. But it means a lot to me that you’re one of the few who has apologized. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had people tell me that my job is ‘cute’ or ‘easy.’” She lets out a frustrated laugh. “They have no idea how hard we work. They have no idea that at any point in any day, some part of my body is hurting.”

“Well, I’ll spread the word from now on. I’ll be the number one evangelist that you’re a badass.”

Christen grins. “You haven’t even seen me dance yet. For real.”

“No…” Tobin’s voice trails off. “But I _really_ want to.”

Christen’s eyes flash, dark, for a second. “Well, we’ll make that happen soon.”

“When? Rehearsal?” Tobin asks hopefully. She’s hoping Christen will extend an invitation to watch her rehearsals at the theater downtown. She’s not sure she can stand waiting until the Nutcracker productions start.

Besides—she doesn’t want to be one of thousands of people adoring Christen at the same time. She wants it to be private. Personal. Just her own singular adoration.

But Christen just wrinkles her nose, then starts to pack her stuff up. “Nah, you don’t want to come to rehearsal. It’s boring, and I’m not at my best. I’ll get you Nutcracker tickets. Good tickets. For you and Casey and the others as well.”

“Oh, yeah,” Tobin deflates a little. “The others as well, for sure.”

They wander their way down to the lobby. “Where are you heading now?” Tobin asks.

“I’m off for a massage,” Christen says cheerfully. Tobin swallows hard at the mental images _that_ raises. “There’s a spa near here that contracts with the Company, and their masseuses are just incredible. They do these foot massages that are to die for. The foot cream is so good that I bought it to use at home, though I’m pathetically bad at doing it myself.” Christen’s laugh is light and cheery. “You could probably use a foot massage too.”

“We have trainers that work on our muscles,” Tobin says, “but I’m not sure it’s the same experience.”

Christen glances at Tobin out of the corner of her eye. “Well, feel free to come with me sometime.”

They’ve made it to the lobby, and to Tobin’s chagrin, the same receptionist is still at the front desk. She slouches down behind Christen to hide a little, but Christen’s so tiny that it doesn’t do much—besides, when Christen moves through the halls, the students all stare and giggle and whisper. It doesn’t look like they’re about to make an inconspicuous exit.

Then, blowing that idea out of the water entirely, Christen suddenly grabs Tobin’s arm with purpose and drags her right up to the shocked receptionist.

“Sheryl, hi,” Christen says loudly. Heads in the lobby turn and stare.

The receptionist stares up with wide, slightly terrified eyes, staring between Christen and Tobin. “Yes—Ms. Press! Hello! What can I do for you today?”

“Sheryl, I just wanted to introduce you to my friend, Tobin Heath. I believe you two met earlier.” Christen drapes one arm across Tobin’s shoulder in an exaggerated motion, then winds her other arm around Tobin’s waist, so she’s cuddling into Tobin’s side like a koala. After a beat of stunned stillness, Tobin feels her arm rising automatically to encircle Christen’s waist and pull her in even tighter. She gives the receptionist a polite smile, waiting for her next cue from Christen.

“I understand she had some difficulties with entry today,” Christen continues. Her voice is light and lilting, but her eyes are hard as steel. Seemingly for emphasis, she snuggles her cheek into Tobin’s shoulder. Tobin feels her own smile growing wider and more smug. “Next time Tobin’s here, and she’s asking for me or for Mallory Pugh or anyone else, you’re going to let her in just like you do with other visitors. Are we crystal clear?”

The entire lobby is silent. All eyes are on the receptionist.

“Yes! Of course!” The receptionist babbles. “Ms.…Heath, was it? Of course, of course. So sorry for the mix-up earlier today. Anything for a personal friend of Ms. Press. Of course.”

“Thank you, glad that’s understood,” Christen says archly.

“Uh, yeah, thanks,” Tobin echoes.

In front of the receptionist and everyone else in the room, Christen reaches down and conspicuously takes Tobin’s hand, winding their fingers together. The receptionist literally gets up out of her seat as if they’re visiting royalty as, lifting her chin proudly, Christen leads Tobin out of the building into the night.

As soon as they get out the doors and down the few steps onto the sidewalk, Christen drops Tobin’s hand and places her fingers over her reddened cheeks. “Sorry for all the dramatics.” Christen gasps out a little laugh. “And sorry I was, uh, all over you. I just hate when people around here are such snobs. Someone like Sheryl doesn’t get to treat you like shit just because you’re not dressed like she’s used to.”

“That was…” Tobin wants to say, _that was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen_. She settles for, “That was the most bad-ass thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Really?” Christen laughs, looking more than pleased with herself. “Not too much that I was all over you?”

“Not too much,” Tobin says.

And then she can’t help herself, and she adds, “You can be all over me any time you want.”

There’s a long beat of silence, and Christen just stares.

“Uh, not too much?” Tobin winces. _Shit. Too much. Of course._ _You’re a bug, she’s a garden, remember?_ She wishes she could take it back. She opens her mouth to apologize, profusely, to get on her proverbial hands and knees in front of this fucking goddess who she’s just insulted and—

Christen leans in, places her mittened hand against Tobin’s jaw, and gives Tobin a lingering, feather-light kiss on the cheek. 

The night brakes into slow motion, the gold stars of distant lamp lights swirling against the hazy blue backdrop of twilight around them.

“No, not too much,” she murmurs as she pulls back.

Tobin stands dazed for a second. The she bites her lip, and an enormous, dopey smile spreads across her face.

Christen is walking backwards on the sidewalk, slowly, placing one foot carefully behind the other as if she’s walking a tightrope. She sticks her hands in her coat pockets as she grins at Tobin.

“What?” Tobin challenges—childlike, exhilarated.

“What, yourself?” Christen twirls back and forth a little, sending the hem of her coat flaring out around her knees. Her hair billows in the wind.

“Nothing. Enjoy your massage.” Tobin feels like she’s floating. She feels like she’s seventeen years old and high on life.

Christen finally gives up on walking backwards. She turns slowly on one heel. She’s still smiling. “Good night,” she calls to Tobin over her shoulder.

“Good night yourself,” Tobin shoots back, and Christen laughs. With one last twinkling glance at Tobin, she vanishes into the crowd.

Tobin stands in startled disbelief, staring into the night. The spot on her cheek sparkles. The whole night is singing around her. The air smells like snow.

And for a moment—just a brief, fleeting moment—Tobin finds herself believing that she could start again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi beautiful friends <3 As a heads up, there will be some verbal abuse/body-shaming in this chapter. It's about a quarter of the way in. Read carefully and with your own peace in mind, as always. Love you all lots.

“You are enraptured.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Captivated.”

“No. Stop.”

“ _Besotted_ —”

“Okay, now you guys are getting into words I don’t even understand. Can you please snap out of the 18th century?”

“Fine,” Moe huffs on the other end of the phone. Tobin can hear Casey laughing in the background. “How about _enchanted_. I can’t believe it! Our little Tobin, all grown up and on her way to being _a girlfriend girl_ —”

“Bye!” Tobin says with finality, dropping the call. Perfect timing. The barista is calling out her name, and she goes to collect the iced hazelnut coffee with oat milk from the counter.

Okay, fine. Her friends might be right that going across town to bring Christen coffee, just because she mentioned in a text that she was tired that day, might be overkill.

But maybe Moe’s actually right. Maybe Tobin is enchanted.

There’s just so much Tobin hasn’t expressed to them. How can Tobin describe, in words, the way it feels to watch Christen smile at her? The way Tobin had felt, protective and affectionate, watching Christen walk with her head bent shivering into the wind? The way that Christen had snuggled cozily into Tobin’s shoulder in front of that receptionist, their faces so close that if Tobin had turned just the slightest bit, her lips would’ve been on Christen’s forehead?

The way Christen’s lips had felt on her cheek?

It’s indescribable, of course. So Tobin doesn’t even try. When her friends tease her about her burgeoning crush, she just rolls her eyes and shoves them away and tries not to smile _too_ big when another text from Christen comes in.

Christen had texted Tobin first, the night after practice. Just a screenshot of her text thread with Mal. Mal had sent Christen a picture of her empty coffee cup and the accompanying text, _Fine, you were right, Tobin’s pretty cool_.

Tobin had been brushing her teeth when she got it, and she smiled so widely that when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she barely recognized herself. She’d stood there with her toothbrush limp in her hand, just staring at her phone. _Christen’s texting me?!_

And she texts back, _You told her you thought I was pretty cool?_ and Christen texts back instantly, _Don’t let it get to your head_ and Tobin retorts, _Actually I’m insulted that you think I’m just “pretty” cool_ , and it spirals from there.

Christen’s texts are funny, and maybe flirty, and definitely frequent.

As the thread between them grows longer and longer, Tobin finds herself scrolling all the way up, disbelieving, watching the little blue and white bubbles blur before her eyes. It makes her almost giddy, seeing the sheer volume of their words. _These are words she wrote to me. And words I wrote to her. That she read. And that she took the time to respond to. What kind of fucking magic is this?!_

( _Suck on that, Julie!_ )

 _Stayed up super late last night sewing my pointe shoes_ , Christen had texted earlier when Tobin asked how she was doing. _Might not make it through my one-on-one rehearsal today_. With a little crying emoji.

Reading the text as she packed up in the locker room after practice, Tobin had realized: she has all the information she needed. She knows Christen’s favorite coffee order. She knows where the theater is, downtown. She knows the practice schedule; Mal had said 10-2, every day.

It’s so easy. She’ll surprise Christen with coffee at the tail end of practice. It feels weirdly effortless, Tobin muses, to trek across town, to do this nice thing. She’s so used to dragging her herself, limbs heavy and head heavy and heart heavy, from obligation to obligation in her life, that it’s weird to have something feel so simple. Easy. Maybe it’s just because there’s the promise of Christen’s smile at the end of the journey. 

Whistling, Tobin leaves the warm coffee shop, and her bare hands around the cup of iced coffee immediately freeze. Luckily, it’s just a short trek through the fanciest part of downtown to the theater, and she arrives just when she wants to, about fifteen minutes before 2. Tobin slows down as she approaches the imposing glass-fronted building. She’s passed it on the street, but she’s never been inside before. Through the towering doors, you can see chandeliers sparkling in the dark, and marble floors, and sumptuous red carpets. The lights are dimmed low on this random weekday afternoon. Tobin pauses at the front door, remembering the mean receptionist from the ballet school.

_Is there a receptionist? Shit, are the doors even unlocked?_

If all else fails, she can text Christen that she’s here, wait at the back entrance for her, or something.

But she tries the doors, and miraculously, they’re open. There’s not even security. Tobin chuckles under her breath as she finds herself wandering through the echoing, lavish lobby, with its red carpet and huge marble pillars. She feels like that scene in Cinderella, when she arrives late and meanders all by herself down the palace hallway.

_What the hell, this is where Christen works every day? This is some fancy ass shit._

The sound of classical music, playing in the distance, is coming from somewhere. She pauses, then tentatively tries a pair of double doors nearby. _Hm, locked_. Spying a nearby staircase, she takes it up to a dark mezzanine. The music increases in volume.

 _Aha_. There’s a door halfway down the mezzanine, propped open with a metal folding chair.

She slips through the door and wanders into the dark second-story balcony. Music is blasting from the speakers, obscuring the sound of her steps. Even Tobin, who never listens to any classical music, recognizes the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy from the Nutcracker. She picks her way between the theater chairs, sinks down into one a few rows back from the railing.

And there she is—Christen. Dancing on stage, alone, in the dark auditorium, and it takes Tobin’s breath away.

Christen looks so blissfully happy, so calm and floating, that Tobin almost feels guilty for sneaking in to witness what feels like a very personal moment. She pirouettes effortlessly across the stage in a white leotard and white legwarmers, a sparkling, translucent skirt billowing around her legs as she spins. She arches her arms and smiled cherubically up into the rafters, first in one direction, then in Tobin’s direction—Tobin quickly sinks back into her seat so that she blends into the balcony shadows. Christen doesn't see her. She lets herself get lost in the music and in the way that Christen floats from one side of the stage to the other, balancing on the points of her pale pink shoes.

As the music builds up louder and louder, Christen leaps into the air, her right leg extending out straight in front of her and her left leg behind her back, so high that they almost form a U-shape in the air. With her arms stretched above her head and a sweet smile on her face, she seems to hang suspended there, in midair, for longer than humanly possible, a magical white figure against the black velvet curtains behind her, before dropping softly back down to the floor and starting to execute a series of complicated-looking turns.

“STOP!”

A man’s voice interrupts, so loud and harsh that Tobin leaps to her feet. _What’s the emergency?!_

Except Christen doesn’t react like Tobin does. Instead, she wearily stops turning and lowers herself back down onto her heels. As if she was expecting an interruption; as if she's resigned to it. The music switches off abruptly. All at once, the magic is gone. In the silence, the sound of heavy footsteps echoes through the dark theater until a large man storms down the aisle into Tobin’s line of vision.

 _Who the fuck is that?_ Tobin leans forward in her seat, on edge at this new intrusion _. He must’ve been sitting in the back of the auditorium the entire time. I just wasn’t able to see him from this angle on the balcony._

“How many fucking times, Christen, do I need to CORRECT YOUR FUCKING FOUETTES?” The man screams, standing by the front row of seats with his hands on his hips. His dark beard shakes as he yells, and Tobin can actually see spit spraying from his mouth. “Hello? Can you even fucking hear anything I’m saying?”

Tobin’s frozen in horror. Her grip on back of the seat in front of her tightens until her knuckles turn white.

Christen stands calmly with her hands folded in front of her, shoulders straight, features expressionless as she meets his eyes. “I can hear you, Mateo.”

“Well then how about you do what I fucking say for once in your life?” He says sardonically. “Go again from the grand jete into the fouettés, and this time, try not to make it the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”

_The worst thing he’s ever seen?!_

As the man paces and mumbles veiled insults, Christen turns calmly to walk back to the center of the stage. She strikes a pose at center stage as if nothing has happened. Tobin watches her take a deep breath. Then that sweet, blissful smile appears on Christen’s face again.

(But this time, Tobin isn't fooled. It's not natural. It's fragile, so porous that Tobin can see right through it.)

Christen performs the same flying jump, smiling the whole time, and floats back down into the spins as she lands. To Tobin, it looks just as magical as the first time, even without the music.

But Christen’s spins are stopped by the man again. “No, no, no, NO, Christen, _darling_ ,” he says, somehow making the word “darling” sound both sinister and insulting. “You’re just shit today, aren’t you?”

And then—“Maybe you’d be able to get the height you need on that if you weren’t getting to be such a fucking cow.”

Tobin literally gasps. She rises to her feet without even realizing. She can feel her fingers shaking against each other. She’s ready to throw herself off the balcony at this man.

But right as she’s trying to muster enough composure to do something, _anything_ , there’s a hand on her arm, dragging her backwards.

“ _Shit!_ ” she whispers, whirling around in shock.

It’s Mal. Tobin’s not sure when she arrived—maybe she, too, has been here the whole time—but she’s not messing around. Her little face is angry and serious. Her grip tightens almost painfully on Tobin’s arm, and she drags her silently back down into a seat in the shadows. “Don’t fucking say anything,” Mal hisses, low and urgent. “You’ll get her in trouble.”

Helplessly, Tobin looks back down at the stage. Christen’s face is back to being expressionless. She's standing there with her hands folded neatly in front of her, her chin lifted high and proud. “Thank you, Mateo,” She replies in a clear, calm voice. “Will that be all?”

“If this shit is all you can give me, then yeah, that’ll be all,” he responds, already storming back up the aisle out of Tobin and Mal’s line of sight. “I’m not going to stay here and waste my time, but you better spend the rest of the day on the treadmill. If you’re not better by opening night, Christen, it’s not going to be pretty,” he yells back down towards the stage at her. The sound of his footsteps echoes farther and farther away, until they hear the creak and slam of the door as he finally exits.

Even from the balcony, Tobin can see the sudden rise and fall of Christen’s chest in the newfound silence. Like she’s breathing for the first time in hours.

She places her hands over her face, looking as if she’s about to burst into tears. Tobin and Mal both freeze. But instead, Christen just stands as still as a statue for several endless moments. Then she lowers her hands, straightens her shoulders, and leaves the stage. The curtains whisper in her wake, and the sound of a door slamming in the distance signals that she’s left the auditorium.

Mal lets out a long, slow breath. She and Tobin stare at each other for a moment.

“What are you doing here?” Mal demands.

“I just…” Tobin faltered. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. She said she was tired, and…”

“And you thought you’d drop by her rehearsal. After she specifically told you not to.”

“She said she didn't want me to come because it would be boring,” Tobin protests feebly. “I didn’t think…”

“Yeah,” Mal rolls her eyes. “You didn’t think. Clearly.”

They stand there in silence for another moment. Tobin wants to run. She wants to flee out of this fancy, horrible, toxic building and vanish into thin air like she was never here. Old Tobin might have. But something grounds her here now. She says, falteringly, “I’m guessing I shouldn’t just…go.”

Mal shakes her head. “No. I mean, you shouldn’t have come. But now that you’re here, you need to tell her you’re here.”

Tobin knows that’s right. She knows she has to face the music. It doesn’t make it any easier.

They start heading downstairs. Tobin feels deflated, dazed. Furious. “Who the fuck was that man?” she demands.

“Mateo.” Mal rolls her eyes. “The artistic director.”

“And he’s always like that?”

“Always.” Mal sighs. Some of the anger seems to seep out of her body, and she gives Tobin a pitying look. “Listen, Tobin, I know this was also a bit of bad luck. If this had been a full cast rehearsal day, you might’ve been fine. Or if it’d just been on a better day for him. But this is why she never lets anyone stay for her private rehearsals with him, except for me. Not even the rest of the cast. Because she knows this happens—too often.” Mal lets out a long sigh.

"She's going to be mad, right?" Tobin's voice sounds haunted and strained even to herself.

Mal doesn't answer. She just ducks her head away as she walks, unable to even make eye contact.

Miserable, Tobin shuffles along after Mal. Her mind is swimming with the scenes she just witnessed. _No wonder she kept telling me not to come to rehearsal. I should’ve picked up on all the hints. But I came, of course, uninvited and wanted. Like the fucking idiot I am_. Silently, side by side, they make their way through a thicket of black velvet stage curtains, past a large backstage area filled with lights, crates, and electrical cords, then down a quiet hallway to a door with a large metal sign hanging on it. The name _Christen Press_ is etched into the metal.

Tobin feels a sudden dread. She glances wide-eyed at Mal. “Are you sure—” she whispers. “Maybe I shouldn’t go in—”

“Mal, that you?” Christen calls from inside.

_Shit._

“Um…Christen?” Mal responds weakly, pushing the door open a little. She glances apologetically towards Tobin. “We’ve…got a...guest.”

As they enter the room, Christen lurches upright from where she was leaning against the wall. 

Surprised, almost pleased, recognition flashes across Christen’s face first. Just for the briefest moment.

Then it shifts to shock. Then something dark and ashamed. Then anger.

“What are you doing here?”

Her voice is like ice.

“I…” Tobin stutters. “I was, uh…”

“How long have you been here?”

“Um…”

Mal finally answers, when Tobin can’t find the words. “Long enough.”

Mal gives Tobin a look that’s almost encouraging. Christen isn’t having it. “Mal,” she says, clipped and biting. “Why don’t you head back to school now.”

It’s a command, not a question.

Biting her lip and casting one last sympathetic look Tobin’s way, Mal slips out of the room and vanishes down the hall.

Wordlessly, without looking at Tobin, Christen takes a long sip of water. Tobin sneaks a glance around the dressing room. Besides a clothing rack hanging with costumes and workout clothes, a couple cases of Gatorade and Pellegrino, and a row of neatly laid-out pointe shoes, there isn’t much else in the room.

She sneaks a look at Christen, too. And what she sees worries her, deep in her gut, deeper than her surface panic about the current circumstances. Christen’s face looks pallid and worn; there are purplish dark circles under her eyes. She finishes her sip of water and coughs—a deep, hacking sound that shudders through her body from her shoulders downwards.

“So,” Christen finally says, pulling on a baggy cardigan and lowering herself into the rolling chair in front of a vanity. “Why are you here?”

“I just…” In a flash, Tobin realizes that the coffee is still up in the balcony somewhere. Forgotten in all the chaos. “I was in the area, I guess, and remembered that you’d be at rehearsal, and I just thought I’d pop in and see what was going on. I didn’t think…sorry, I’m rambling…uh…”

“I asked you not to come.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Tobin has never felt so wretched.

After a little pause, Christen shrugs and meets Tobin’s eyes. “Well, now you’ve seen it,” she says, reaching down to unlace her shoes. “The life of a ballerina, in all its glory.”

Tobin pauses. She wants to say something like, _maybe it’s not so bad that I saw_. Something like _, I don’t want you to feel like you need to hide any part of your life from me_. But in that pause, she happens to look down as Christen slides her silky pink pointe shoes off her feet.

And then she forgets their topic of conversation altogether.

Tobin isn’t really sure if she’s ever actually gasped from shock before today, but now she’s done it twice in one day. First when Mateo called Christen a cow, and now…this. Every single toe on both of Christen’s feet is bandaged and bloody. Her heels, too. Tobin watches in horror as Christen, not even wincing, begins yanking the bandages off and discarding them in the trash. 

“What the fuck, Christen? Are you okay? Is this—what _is_ this?! Is this normal?” Tobin knows she’s babbling, but she can’t help it.

As Christen finishes unwinding the bloody bandages from her toes, Tobin actually has to avert her eyes. She looks for the nearest trash can, in case she has to throw up into it. (That would really be the icing on top of an already excellent day.)

“This is…normal enough.” Christen responds evenly. Tobin recognizes in her voice the robotic tone as the one she’d used with Mateo earlier. “These shoes are on the new side and I pushed myself a little harder today than I’d usually go in new shoes, that’s all.” Tobin sneaks another peek in horror as Christen swipes at her cuts and blisters with baby wipes and slaps on some new bandages. As Christen pulls on her socks and sneakers, she glances up at Tobin with a cold, quizzical raise of an eyebrow. “So, before I go, did you need something?”

In addition to being miserable and shocked and self-conscious, Tobin’s all off-kilter now. With a start of guilt, she realizes why. She’s used to being the irritated, difficult one. She’s used to Christen being patient and amenable, even when Tobin sucks.

 _Shit, why have I been such a dick?_ She thinks suddenly, frantically. _Is this what Christen’s life is really like all the time? I can’t believe I’ve been giving her even more shit on top of this._

“No…” she says, falteringly. “I guess not.”

“I really did not want you to see this. I don’t want anyone to see this,” Christen says, her mouth tight with anger. She tugs her jacket on and swings her duffel bag over her shoulder. “That’s why I specifically told you not to come to rehearsal.”

“I know. I know, I fucked up. And I’m sorry. But—” As Christen heads back out into the hallway, Tobin trails along behind her, scrambling for courage. “Maybe it’s not so bad. That I saw? I mean, I really didn’t mean to intrude, but you’ve seen me in a few pretty fucked-up moments, too. Everyone’s got some fucked-up moments in life, and maybe now that I’ve seen, we can talk about it if you want to, and—”

“Tobin.” Christen barrels to a stop in front of a heavy silver exit door. She whirls towards Tobin with ice-cold anger lining her face. “We don’t even know each other.”

It hits Tobin like a hammer in the gut.

“You shouldn’t have seen what you saw today. That was private. My boundaries are my own, and you don’t get to try and justify, after-the-fact, why you didn’t respect them.”

Another hammer in the gut.

“And anyway, I don’t need to talk about it. Everything’s fine. Nothing’s wrong. So why would I need to talk about anything? With anyone? Especially with you?”

Christen’s voice picks up steam as she goes, getting faster and higher.

But Tobin thinks she knows what this is now.

She’s good at recognizing brokenness. She’s good at recognizing a person desperately trying to hold her own heart together in her hands.

She’s good at it because she is that person, all the time.

“Christen…” she tries again. Softer this time. She reaches out a tentative hand. “Come on. I came here to bring you coffee, because you said you were tired. I forgot it in the theater like an idiot. But let me buy you a coffee, or a meal, or something. I’m sorry, okay?”

Christen flinches backwards, hands gripping tightly on her bag straps, not meeting Tobin’s eye. “You heard Mateo earlier. I’m spending the rest of the day on the treadmill.”

Tobin’s heart cracks open a little. “Chris, _no_ —”

“Goodbye, Tobin.” Christen says. Her tone sounds terrifyingly final. She leans hard against the door, and they find themselves on a quiet sidewalk on a back street. There are a few sleek black sedans parked by the door, and the sun glinting off their burnished hoods stings Tobin’s eyes after the darkness of the theater. Still avoiding eye contact with Tobin, Christen steps up to one of the sedans and lets herself in the back door. “Hi Scott; just home today, please,” Tobin hears her say in her usual tone of voice—soft, pleasant—as she settles her bag on the seat and slips inside. The car door slams, and an instant later the car pulls smoothly away from the curb, leaving Tobin standing dejectedly on the sidewalk.

* * *

 _Christen, I’m sorry. You were right, I shouldn’t have shown up at the theater uninvited, and I shouldn’t have tried to justify overstepping that boundary. I hope you’re doing okay and that you’ll let me make it up to you_. 

“Add that you miss her,” Casey pipes up from over Tobin’s shoulder, examining the draft text. Moe, whose chin is propped on Tobin’s other shoulder, nods.

 _I miss you_.

“No,” Tobin changes her mind hastily, backspacing it out. “I want the apology to stand on its own. Saying I miss her will just muddle the waters, right?”

“I agree,” Alyssa says. “Send it without saying you miss her.”

Tobin presses send. Then, with a groan, she flops over on her couch to rest her head in Casey’s lap. “Why. Am I such. A fuck up?! Why did I treat her like shit for so long?” She buried her face in her hands. “I fucking knew it. I knew it’d be too good to last. Nothing good ever lasts.”

“Tobes, it’ll be okay,” Casey croons, smoothing her calming fingers through Tobin’s tangled hair. “Your heart was absolutely in the right place yesterday. You were just trying to bring her coffee and get to know her a little better. You were trying to do the right thing.”

Tobin just groans again and buries her face in her hands.

“It can’t be easy…” Alyssa adds, in her soft-spoken, thoughtful way, “for someone like Christen, who always seems to have it all together, to have someone witness her being treated like that. Especially if she knows, deep down, that the treatment is intolerable. And especially if the person who witnesses it is someone she really wants to impress.”

“And we still believe that, Tobes,” Moe pipes up earnestly. “She was definitely into you. _Is_ definitely into you. Just give her some time to cool off.” 

Tobin looks around at her friends. “I don’t deserve you guys.”

“Nope, you definitely don’t!” Moe teases. “But we’re here for you regardless. And Christen will come around.”

As if on cue, Tobin’s phone lights up, and all four girls leap at it.

“Oh my god, look at it for me, I can’t,” Tobin whines, thrusting her phone into Alyssa’s hand.

Alyssa looks down at the screen. She frowns, sighs, looks up at Tobin.

"Is it from Christen?" Tobin demands.

Alyssa nods.

"And?!"

“She says it’s fine.”

“But what does she _say_?” Tobin prods impatiently.

“No, that’s it.” Alyssa hands over the phone with an apologetic look.

Tobin looks down. That’s the whole text.

 _It’s fine_.

“Shit!”

“Give her some time,” Casey consoles. “I’ll talk to her, okay? And I’ll talk to Mal, and Mal will talk to her too. Come on, put it out of your mind for a while. Let’s go to practice.”

Tobin lets her friends drag her off the couch. Slouching against the passenger seat window, she listens to them chatter on about their Thanksgiving plans next week. They’re all scattering to the winds, or at least to the Chicago suburbs.

“You’re going to Florida to see your family, right, Tobes?” Moe asks.

Tobin pulls the hood of her sweatshirt further over her head. She checks her phone as if, magically, a new text from Christen would’ve appeared in the last few minutes. No such luck. _It’s fine_ , her phone screams up at her, acerbic and cold and unforgiving.

Except nothing’s actually fine.

“No,” she says dully. “I’m going to stick around here.”

Practice is unrelenting, with the NWSL championship against the Courage coming up in a few weeks. Tobin doesn’t mind the grueling pace, though. It gives her something else to concentrate on. And remembering the nightmare of Christen’s rehearsal, the way her feet looked in her pointe shoes…Tobin shudders as she sinks another curling ball into the upper 90. Nothing here seems as bad. In fact, she feels like a whiny little baby for ever slacking at practice in the first place.

“Good work, Tobin,” Rory says, in pleasant surprise, as she ducks by the sideline for a sip of water. “Really great, actually.”

Tobin responds with a grunt and a wordless lift of her water bottle in acknowledgment. The praise feels good. Not because it’s from him—she’s still not a fan of Rory—but because she knows it reflects the fact that she’s doing something right.

The rookies, too, look at her with something like renewed respect as she leaves the field that day, sweaty and exhausted, but satisfied with herself.

Shannon, the trainer, squeezes her arm as she passes on the way to the locker room. “Baby steps, Tobin,” she whispers. “I’m proud of you.”

* * *

A few days later, it’s the last practice before Thanksgiving. No word from Christen in days. The sky is as cold and gray and roiling as Tobin’s heart. But she tries to put on a strong face. The mentees are there, and Tobin’s hanging out with Fina on the field, in the freezing cold.

“Don’t you want to call it a day?” Tobin asks. All around them, the other players are slowly starting to pack it in. She’s shivering despite her mittens and beanie. “Weather forecast says it’s about to snow.”

“No,” Fina says, with fiery determination. “I want to take ten more shots with each of my feet.”

Tobin grins in spite of herself. “Atta girl.”

“A girl on my soccer team at school…” Fina starts to say. Her tone is deceptively light, but there’s a troubled look in her eyes. “She said yesterday that I should just give up. That I’m not good and I never will be.”

In a flash, Tobin is on her knees in front of Fina. She places two hands firmly on her shoulders and looks her in the eye. “Hey. Fina, listen to me. Never let anyone else define your worth for you, okay? You hear me?” In her mind’s eye, she sees that Mateo guy, screaming at Christen, spit flying everywhere. Telling her she’s fat, worthless, untalented. “You’re a rock star. You’re absolutely incredible. I’m in awe of you every single day.”

Fina looks up, a tentative smile on her face. “Really?”

“A hundred percent. Don’t let anybody talk down to you like that. Don’t ever let anyone treat you like crap. And if they do, fu—I mean…uh… _ignore_ them.”

Fina giggles. “I know what word you were about to say!”

“Do you?” Tobin opens her eyes, wide and innocent. “What word?”

“The F word!” Fina whispers dramatically.

Tobin lowers her voice and looks around. “You’re right!” She says conspiratorially. “I was going to say, if they do, _fuzzy_ kittens will make you feel better.”

“That’s not what you were going to say!”

“It totally was! Okay, go line up your shots, and I’ll play goalie,” Tobin instructs, laughing.

Alyssa’s still lingering near the goal as she runs up to it. She has this look on her face that makes Tobin halt in her tracks. “What?”

“Hm?”

“I know you want to say something, so spit it out.”

The corner of Alyssa’s mouth quirks. She waits for a moment, watching Fina lining up a precise row of balls in the penalty area. “I know there’s no word from Christen yet, and I know you really want to apologize to her.”

“…yeah?”

“But in the meantime,” Alyssa nudges gently. “I can think of a few other people you could maybe apologize to. If, you know, you’re getting into the business of making amends.”

“Who?”

Tobin follows Alyssa’s gaze towards a group of the rookies, who are heading their way across the field.

“I heard what you just said to Fina,” Alyssa says. Her tone is gentle and non-judgmental, but firm. “And don’t you think that—maybe just sometimes—you’ve been on the giving end of, I don’t know, treating some people like crap?”

Tobin groans and grits her teeth. She thinks of all the shit she’s given these rookies this year. She really has been at her worst since May. She’s sent them snide comments under her breath; she’s ignored them when they’ve asked for help; she’s raged at them for minor mistakes until Rory or Moe or Casey have had to grab her by the elbow and pull her away.

“Hey!” she calls out, right as the rookies are passing them.

They freeze, eyes wide, skeptical and perhaps a bit terrified.

“Uh, great scrimmage today. Sophia, that footwork was sick. And uh, Bethany, your vision is getting better and better.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. The rookies, Alyssa—even Tobin’s a little shocked at herself. It’s not quite an apology, but it’s a start. And she waits with bated breath, hoping they’ll accept it.

And then one of the rookies, Bethany, is grinning. “Thanks, Tobin,” she says, simple and friendly. “That means a lot to us.”

They walk on, and Tobin lets her shoulders sag. She glances over, and Alyssa’s looking at her with honest admiration.

“What?” Tobin mutters, self-conscious.

Alyssa just shakes her head. “You’re really something, you know, Tobin? I could never have done what you just did. That’s something I really appreciate about you. You could’ve just gotten mad at me, or defensive, but you just…heard me and turned around and started fixing things.”

“Yeah,” Tobin mumbles, scuffing her cleat against the grass, embarrassed at the praise. “That’s because I know I suck.”

Alyssa starts to say something, but then Fina’s calling out that she’s ready, so she bites her lip and gives Tobin a smile instead. “Yeah, yeah, I don’t buy it, but we’ll talk about this after we get back from Thanksgiving. You sure you don’t want to head home? You’ve been killing yourself. You should give yourself a break. Go see family.”

“Nah,” Tobin says. “I think I’m going to stick around here. I need to get some more training in; make up for all the slacking over the last few months.” Something hits her forehead, and she looks up at the sky. Fat, white flakes are falling from the roiling gray storm clouds overhead. _Something beautiful, out of something desolate_.

She puts on a brave face as Alyssa jogs off, but she tosses and turns in bed that night.

All her friends are out of the city, back with their families. Christen’s not speaking to her.

She thinks about the way she feels every day, when she wakes up alone in bed every morning. When she doesn’t join her friends for dinners. When she slouches home at the end of the day, knowing there’s no one waiting up for her. No one expecting her to call and check in on them.

She used to call it freedom. But now, she wonders, perhaps it’s just loneliness after all.

* * *

The morning after Thanksgiving, she gets an ad on her phone for the opening night of the Nutcracker.

(She knows it’s those damn algorithms, picking up on the fact that she visits Christen’s Instagram five times a day.)

The ad has got Mal’s smiling face on it, and Christen’s smiling face, and it reminds her of everything she’s done wrong recently.

So she hops on her stationary bike and pedals until the burning ache in her quads overwhelms every other emotion. She toils and sweats and thinks about what to make for lunch. Salad, maybe. Sweet potato. Chicken breast. Iced tea. (There hasn’t been beer in the apartment for weeks.)

When her phone rings, she reaches automatically for it. Some part of her heart harbors a desperate hope that it’s Christen, or a friend, or family member, calling to check in. But her heart sinks when she realizes that it’s a call from a number she doesn’t even recognize. _Spam_ , she thinks, tossing the phone to the side as she cranks up the resistance even higher.

But just a minute later, her phone lights up with a text. She reaches for it. It’s from the same number, and—bewilderingly—it says _, Is this Tobin’s number? It’s Mal_.

Tobin’s got the phone to her ear, dialing, in a heartbeat.

“Mal?”

“Tobin?”

There’s a tremor in the younger girl’s voice that’s got Tobin worried. She stops pedaling, breathing still heavy. “What is it? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Mal speaks in a hushed, troubled voice, and it reverberates a little, as if she’s in a large space. “It’s Christen.”

Tobin nearly falls off the bike. “Is she okay?!”

“She called in sick to dress rehearsal this morning—and with opening night tonight, that’s obviously really worrying—so I came over to her apartment to see how she’s doing, and it’s bad, but, um…” Mal’s voice wobbles a little and trails off again. “She doesn't want me here. She says she can’t get me sick, and I tried to stay but she got upset...and...but—but I didn’t want to leave her alone—and everyone’s out of town for Thanksgiving, and I didn’t know who else to call—”

“I’m coming, Mal, don’t worry. Okay? I’m on my way. Hang tight and wait for me.” Tobin is already scrambling around her apartment. She throws her down jacket on straight over her sweaty sports bra, checks her pockets for keys and wallet, and is sprinting down her apartment hallway before the end of the sentence is even out of her mouth.


End file.
